Monday mornings in the spring around here bring a litany of my-weekend-was-worse-than-yours rants from over-taxed mothers. I started laughing the other day, outside the school, as the competition raged. One mother of three sounded as if she was singing her own rendition of the 12 Days of Christmas...
"Three baseball games, two soccer matches and a birthday party too!"
I gave her a gold star, of course. There is something about these rants that makes Park Slope both enviable (it was, after all, recently voted top New York neighborhood in New York magazine) and loathsome. See, we are lucky to have such bounty to bitch about, we are lucky to be so burdened. And our kids are lucky too. But, yet, scheduling is a challenge. The brass tacks of building kids' strength, confidence and social skills in a myriad of ways makes for a very tiring couple of days.
"At least it's Friday," Geordie said to me this morning. I just looked at him as I put the cupcakes into the oven for Eli's class birthday.
"Weekends are more stressful for me," I said, especially in the spring. Both boys have baseball and rugby, Eli has a birthday party, my Mom is in town...I start to feel overwhelmed, to make up my own 12 Days of Christmas rant, and then I remember: Oh, right. We are incredibly lucky.
Added to our weekend events will likely be a run over to the new YMCA at the Armory just a few blocks away. My friend Sandy who runs activities there reminded me yesterday of Saturday's Healthy Kids Day when I saw her outside Parco.
"There will be five bouncy castles!" she said, enthusiastic as usual.
My kids will love it, I'm sure. So, hopefully, will lots of other kids that live nearby, some of whom might not be so busy running from activity to activity planned by Type A parents of means. That, actually, is the point. The Y's Healthy Kids Day is a cross-country event expected to involve 800,000 attendees in an effort to encourage families to adopt healthier lifestyles, to "Put Play in Their Day."
It is easy to forget in the midst of our own busy weekends that plenty of people don't have the luxury of play, that their weekends are filled with work, running from job to job, and that their kids often, out of necessity not purposeful neglect, get left inside to entertain themselves however possible, to stay out of trouble. They do not always get the chance to get their necessary physical excercise.
I remember last year at this time when I was similarly planning Eli's birthday party, and I went to Radio Shack to pick up some things. I started talking to the cute, helpful kid behind the counter about the party, for which I was taking a bunch of Eli's friends on a hike into the park. I remember, and I think I wrote about it, that he said forlornly, "I've never been on a hike..."
"But you can go right here, in Prospect Park!" I said. I invited him along, but he had to work. I took his number but I got busy and never called. I should have. It is important to help urban people stuck in the concrete city, people fighting just to afford rent and food, remember to get excercise, to enjoy themselves, to play, in the park, in the Armory, wherever they can.
At the very least, even in the moments we can't help someone else remember, we can at least remember ourselves to appreciate all the time our own kids have to play. That is my mission for the weekend.
I am reminded, as I remind myself not to begin the rant, of a t-shirt I saw on a fellow parent recently and loved. It said WHINING with a big circle around it and a slash through it. No Whining. I told my friend about it and she laughed. "For the kids..." she said. I shook my head. "No," I said, "for us!" Park Slope parents, like ambitious parents everywhere, often need the reminder. I know I do.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Chosen, But for What?
I have no answers, only questions. But, lately, I'm beginning to think that's OK, I'm beginning to think that's all there is. In fact, I'm all of a sudden aware that even I, who seems to ask endless questions of myself and others, am not actually asking enough of the really hard questions. There are so many, though, and, often, the questions themselves--let alone the potential answers--are hard to face.
But paying attention, really probing beyond the surface, is so important. It is what will help us at least understand how we've arrived where we are if not exactly where to go next. We have to look around, to see what's underneath the surface. I give out a lot of gold stars to people I have realized are often much different than they appear, to people who so often want to serve in so many ways beyond their current role. Waiters are writers, baristas accountants or the greatest guitarists. Then, photographers really want to be actors, Wall St. guys dream of dumping it all to draw. It is hard to figure who to be, much as it seems simple as a kid. We all want to add value, to find out the meaning of why we’re here on earth. It's not so easy.
I have of late been looking up at the clock at exactly 11:11, placing important calls right as the ones band together. I have heard that it's a sign, my sister is convinced of it. I decided to google it for some information. The first thing I found on my search of "the meaning of 11:11" was from GlobalPsychics.com, which offered that seeing the numbers a lot means that one has been chosen to “pierce the veil of illusion,” that this person must "lead the way to the Greater Reality, to the Greater Love."
Cool, I thought. I was always the last to be chosen for dodge ball (I never paid attention enough to know when to avoid the ball)and I have never felt that being born Jewish, alone, should place me in the Chosen One category. Here is was, though, right on my screen: if I noticed 11:11, I was important. Of course, I've always believed I am meant to do that, to spread truth. Isn't that why I'm a writer? This is what I thought, and, then, I began to laugh at myself.
I’m not a pollster, since I don’t really believe so much in the power of what people say when pressed, unrelaxedly, into giving specific answers. But I believe if I were to poll people, most people, the people, certainly, reading these words, I would imagine everyone feels the same: that they were put on earth for a reason, a good reason. I think we spend our whole lives trying to figure what that it is. Some think about it more than others. Maybe, I often think about myself and others corroborate, that thinking is a luxury.
“Am I too hopeful about the idea of possibility?” I asked my husband the other morning we lay in bed in the earlier light of Spring. I don’t even know why I ask him. I know the answer. It is yes. I am forever hopeful that I will figure my reason for being, that others will too. It is why I try to reward all I can, why I want everyone everywhere to get a gold star. I love looking around noticing who people are really trying to be. Sometimes, it is so clear.
For example, one night a friend I hadn't seen in a bit showed up at dinner in a jacket and long beard, and something about him rang familiar.
“Hello Hemingway...” I said. He looked at me strangely. Apparently, I was dead on, that’s exactly who he was channeling, who he really wanted to be.
The other night I met a man, an actor and acting coach, who sat next to me listening to jazz at The Blue Note. After talking to him a bit, I said what I was thinking: “You look just like Aaron Eckhart,” I said. He blushed slightly. “Wow, thanks!” he said. Someone down the way offered up another suggestion of who he seemed to look like, but he was not nearly so pleased.
Later in the evening, after we had hung out for hours, he came clean. “My ex-girlfriend and I played a game where we would ask what celeb we would set each other up with. I always said Aaron Eckhart…” I smiled. Of course. I could see he was aiming to be him, clearly. Just as I saw the waiter I had watched at the gym, a guitarist and, now, video editor, and immediately called it out.
“Jake, from 16 candles…” I said.
He had blushed. “Wow, my wife is going to be really excited to hear that…” he said. Jake was, after all, the great dream man of a generation.
As for me, as for others seeing who I want to be, who I am modelling myself after, I heard not too long ago, "Barbra Streisand!" from an astute subway rider.
“Only in Funny Girl I hope…” I said smiling. I definitely want to be Barbara in that movie, strong, sexy--mostly for her personality-- and hilarious.
Recently, I got Carole King. I smiled then, too.
“Did you see Grace of My Heart?” I asked the man, a regular at our local bar, Brookvin, who my husband and I both adore talking to. He shook his head. It is, arguably, one of my favorite movies. I related so much to the lead character, played by Illeana Douglas. She is based on Ms. King, a prolific songwriter of the 60s and 70s. It chronicles her life, her many varied relationships, her efforts to write and sing and figure her way through with strength and creativity, her efforts to truly value her unique self and to help others see and value themselves.
I am not Ms. King, of course, just as nobody is anyone else but who they are. But in questioning who we want to be, who beyond the surface we might really be, it is great to have models. It is challenging, after all to figure our role, even if we might think we have been "chosen."
But paying attention, really probing beyond the surface, is so important. It is what will help us at least understand how we've arrived where we are if not exactly where to go next. We have to look around, to see what's underneath the surface. I give out a lot of gold stars to people I have realized are often much different than they appear, to people who so often want to serve in so many ways beyond their current role. Waiters are writers, baristas accountants or the greatest guitarists. Then, photographers really want to be actors, Wall St. guys dream of dumping it all to draw. It is hard to figure who to be, much as it seems simple as a kid. We all want to add value, to find out the meaning of why we’re here on earth. It's not so easy.
I have of late been looking up at the clock at exactly 11:11, placing important calls right as the ones band together. I have heard that it's a sign, my sister is convinced of it. I decided to google it for some information. The first thing I found on my search of "the meaning of 11:11" was from GlobalPsychics.com, which offered that seeing the numbers a lot means that one has been chosen to “pierce the veil of illusion,” that this person must "lead the way to the Greater Reality, to the Greater Love."
Cool, I thought. I was always the last to be chosen for dodge ball (I never paid attention enough to know when to avoid the ball)and I have never felt that being born Jewish, alone, should place me in the Chosen One category. Here is was, though, right on my screen: if I noticed 11:11, I was important. Of course, I've always believed I am meant to do that, to spread truth. Isn't that why I'm a writer? This is what I thought, and, then, I began to laugh at myself.
I’m not a pollster, since I don’t really believe so much in the power of what people say when pressed, unrelaxedly, into giving specific answers. But I believe if I were to poll people, most people, the people, certainly, reading these words, I would imagine everyone feels the same: that they were put on earth for a reason, a good reason. I think we spend our whole lives trying to figure what that it is. Some think about it more than others. Maybe, I often think about myself and others corroborate, that thinking is a luxury.
“Am I too hopeful about the idea of possibility?” I asked my husband the other morning we lay in bed in the earlier light of Spring. I don’t even know why I ask him. I know the answer. It is yes. I am forever hopeful that I will figure my reason for being, that others will too. It is why I try to reward all I can, why I want everyone everywhere to get a gold star. I love looking around noticing who people are really trying to be. Sometimes, it is so clear.
For example, one night a friend I hadn't seen in a bit showed up at dinner in a jacket and long beard, and something about him rang familiar.
“Hello Hemingway...” I said. He looked at me strangely. Apparently, I was dead on, that’s exactly who he was channeling, who he really wanted to be.
The other night I met a man, an actor and acting coach, who sat next to me listening to jazz at The Blue Note. After talking to him a bit, I said what I was thinking: “You look just like Aaron Eckhart,” I said. He blushed slightly. “Wow, thanks!” he said. Someone down the way offered up another suggestion of who he seemed to look like, but he was not nearly so pleased.
Later in the evening, after we had hung out for hours, he came clean. “My ex-girlfriend and I played a game where we would ask what celeb we would set each other up with. I always said Aaron Eckhart…” I smiled. Of course. I could see he was aiming to be him, clearly. Just as I saw the waiter I had watched at the gym, a guitarist and, now, video editor, and immediately called it out.
“Jake, from 16 candles…” I said.
He had blushed. “Wow, my wife is going to be really excited to hear that…” he said. Jake was, after all, the great dream man of a generation.
As for me, as for others seeing who I want to be, who I am modelling myself after, I heard not too long ago, "Barbra Streisand!" from an astute subway rider.
“Only in Funny Girl I hope…” I said smiling. I definitely want to be Barbara in that movie, strong, sexy--mostly for her personality-- and hilarious.
Recently, I got Carole King. I smiled then, too.
“Did you see Grace of My Heart?” I asked the man, a regular at our local bar, Brookvin, who my husband and I both adore talking to. He shook his head. It is, arguably, one of my favorite movies. I related so much to the lead character, played by Illeana Douglas. She is based on Ms. King, a prolific songwriter of the 60s and 70s. It chronicles her life, her many varied relationships, her efforts to write and sing and figure her way through with strength and creativity, her efforts to truly value her unique self and to help others see and value themselves.
I am not Ms. King, of course, just as nobody is anyone else but who they are. But in questioning who we want to be, who beyond the surface we might really be, it is great to have models. It is challenging, after all to figure our role, even if we might think we have been "chosen."
Monday, April 12, 2010
Can't We Both Be Awesome?
As I sat last Friday, trying to get some things done at Red Horse Cafe, the closest thing I have to an office, I looked up to see a cherub-faced blonde waving at me. She blew me a kiss. Nice. Her mother looked on, beaming.
"Wow," I said, "adorable."
The mom smiled. "She's very friendly..."
I laughed. "Although I'm sure I'm special..."
I gave gold stars to the little doll, who turned out to be about 19 months old, and to her mother for her good child-rearing, and to the woman sitting next to them, who had been chatting with them.
The mom smiled as she looked down at the star on her finger. "It's funny about the gold star," she said, "because she is so proud of herself when she does something, anything, like climb the stairs. I wasn't that proud of myself when I graduated college!" she laughed.
I shook my head sadly. "See, ideally, I think we start out that way, proud of ourselves, and then, only over time, as adults, we learn not to feel too proud, that it sounds too braggy to be proud of yourself...it's so challenging."
I was thinking of my own kids, how hard it is to know what to say when they say they are the best at anything. Even if it is true, even if they win a game or a race or get chosen first for something, I want them to understand the position that puts other people in, how it might feel to be on the losing end. I want to teach them not to be insensitive and pompous but, at the same time, I want them to always feel proud of themselves, to feel good about their abilities and who they are in general. It is a quandary.
We are, by our very nature, comparitive and competitive. If we are great, for some reason, it seems always to be at the expense of someone else's greatness. I, for one, never understand why and, yet, I look back at my junior high yearbook and cringe that I am not on one of the pages that proclaims people Best Dressed, Funniest, Most Studious, etc. It cheers me that I won the overall Citizenship award at graduation, for which I still have my medal, but then I have to laugh at myself. What if I'd won nothing? What then? What if my kids win nothing? What if they are not the best? And, what if they are?
Little League baseball season started this past weekend and, with it, a flurry of frenetic activity, always threatened by the chance of rain. I hate team sports. I was not a good sport about walking in the Little League Parade down 7th Ave. My kids felt my lack of enthusiasm and matched it, exceeded it even with their own boredom and annoyance. We ditched out early to have brunch at Dizzy's Diner. It's not that I don't like to participate in things, to teach my kids that, sometimes, they have to be part of the pack. It's just that I have always balked at the idea of winners and losers, at 'us' versus 'them.' I cringe at the idea that, at the end of the game, someone is going to walk away feeling the least bit bad, even though they tried, maybe even tried their best. I hated playing soccer games even though I loved the sport. If my team won, I felt bad for the other team, if my team lost, I felt bad for my teammates, who, mostly, took it more seriously than I did and would be in a bad mood for hours if we didn't walk away the victors.
The baseball parade always reminds me, as I walk in the crush of "team spirit," that something is amiss in the way we do things, in the competitiveness with which we approach most things. Instead of playing together for mutual benefit, instead of being able to allow everyone to feel proud, we are always picking who can be proud, who is allowed, based on a set of criteria someone arbitrarily chooses. I guess that is why I have been accused, recently, of being a communist. And I guess I am, though my husband, Geordie, points out the problem with that when he quotes the Simpsons smartly about something that should work and doesn't: "In theory, communism works."
Inherently I understand that capitalism, which doesn't work too well in theory, certainly not in mine, actually does seem to work the best in practice because, sad to say, comparing and competing is in our very nature. It is survival of the fittest and, much as I fight against it, I know it is true. I suppose it is just something we have to mitigate in ourselves and in our children, to find a way to be proud but not to make others pay for our pride.
My kids play with this concept a lot. Take, for example, a little song that Oscar was repeating last night, composed by his brother Eli along with a little choreographed sashay:
"I'm awesome, I'm awesome, I'm awesome, uh huh... I'm awesome, I'm awesome, I'm awesome, uh huh. I'm awesome, I'm awesome, I'm awesome, uh huh...'Cause you're not."
Gulp. No one got a gold star for that one. As a reminder of how they should be thinking, there is a great piece of art on the wall of my kids' room, a print by local Park Slope painter Jonathan Blum, that I picked up when I first moved to the neighborhood at a street fair. Even though I had only one child then, the concept was solid and, now, it is a perfect reminder for two boys in one room. Featuring two dogs, both wearing crowns, it says: "Can't We Both Be Kings?" If only.
"Wow," I said, "adorable."
The mom smiled. "She's very friendly..."
I laughed. "Although I'm sure I'm special..."
I gave gold stars to the little doll, who turned out to be about 19 months old, and to her mother for her good child-rearing, and to the woman sitting next to them, who had been chatting with them.
The mom smiled as she looked down at the star on her finger. "It's funny about the gold star," she said, "because she is so proud of herself when she does something, anything, like climb the stairs. I wasn't that proud of myself when I graduated college!" she laughed.
I shook my head sadly. "See, ideally, I think we start out that way, proud of ourselves, and then, only over time, as adults, we learn not to feel too proud, that it sounds too braggy to be proud of yourself...it's so challenging."
I was thinking of my own kids, how hard it is to know what to say when they say they are the best at anything. Even if it is true, even if they win a game or a race or get chosen first for something, I want them to understand the position that puts other people in, how it might feel to be on the losing end. I want to teach them not to be insensitive and pompous but, at the same time, I want them to always feel proud of themselves, to feel good about their abilities and who they are in general. It is a quandary.
We are, by our very nature, comparitive and competitive. If we are great, for some reason, it seems always to be at the expense of someone else's greatness. I, for one, never understand why and, yet, I look back at my junior high yearbook and cringe that I am not on one of the pages that proclaims people Best Dressed, Funniest, Most Studious, etc. It cheers me that I won the overall Citizenship award at graduation, for which I still have my medal, but then I have to laugh at myself. What if I'd won nothing? What then? What if my kids win nothing? What if they are not the best? And, what if they are?
Little League baseball season started this past weekend and, with it, a flurry of frenetic activity, always threatened by the chance of rain. I hate team sports. I was not a good sport about walking in the Little League Parade down 7th Ave. My kids felt my lack of enthusiasm and matched it, exceeded it even with their own boredom and annoyance. We ditched out early to have brunch at Dizzy's Diner. It's not that I don't like to participate in things, to teach my kids that, sometimes, they have to be part of the pack. It's just that I have always balked at the idea of winners and losers, at 'us' versus 'them.' I cringe at the idea that, at the end of the game, someone is going to walk away feeling the least bit bad, even though they tried, maybe even tried their best. I hated playing soccer games even though I loved the sport. If my team won, I felt bad for the other team, if my team lost, I felt bad for my teammates, who, mostly, took it more seriously than I did and would be in a bad mood for hours if we didn't walk away the victors.
The baseball parade always reminds me, as I walk in the crush of "team spirit," that something is amiss in the way we do things, in the competitiveness with which we approach most things. Instead of playing together for mutual benefit, instead of being able to allow everyone to feel proud, we are always picking who can be proud, who is allowed, based on a set of criteria someone arbitrarily chooses. I guess that is why I have been accused, recently, of being a communist. And I guess I am, though my husband, Geordie, points out the problem with that when he quotes the Simpsons smartly about something that should work and doesn't: "In theory, communism works."
Inherently I understand that capitalism, which doesn't work too well in theory, certainly not in mine, actually does seem to work the best in practice because, sad to say, comparing and competing is in our very nature. It is survival of the fittest and, much as I fight against it, I know it is true. I suppose it is just something we have to mitigate in ourselves and in our children, to find a way to be proud but not to make others pay for our pride.
My kids play with this concept a lot. Take, for example, a little song that Oscar was repeating last night, composed by his brother Eli along with a little choreographed sashay:
"I'm awesome, I'm awesome, I'm awesome, uh huh... I'm awesome, I'm awesome, I'm awesome, uh huh. I'm awesome, I'm awesome, I'm awesome, uh huh...'Cause you're not."
Gulp. No one got a gold star for that one. As a reminder of how they should be thinking, there is a great piece of art on the wall of my kids' room, a print by local Park Slope painter Jonathan Blum, that I picked up when I first moved to the neighborhood at a street fair. Even though I had only one child then, the concept was solid and, now, it is a perfect reminder for two boys in one room. Featuring two dogs, both wearing crowns, it says: "Can't We Both Be Kings?" If only.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Bench Marks
It's easy to get lost in thought, to dither rather than do. This has been a week of dithering, recovering from family vacation, getting the projects I was working on before the break sorted in my head. Sitting outside Parco in the mornings, I have given out a fair number of gold stars to others pondering their own projects. It is not an easy task.
One woman, wearing a great red dress and wedges, paused slightly as my friend and I sat on the bench against the wall.
"Did you want to sit?" my friend asked her.
"Well...for just a minute," she said gratefully and pulled up a chair. Turns out she was on her way to a photo shoot for a book she is writing with her husband, a decorating book about how to make stuff yourself from what you find in the hardware store. She, like my friend and I, is trying to navigate the tricky world of self-promotion without selling out, to figure how to pay the mortgage and keep her kids fed while staying true to her ideals.
She shook her head at the coincidence of meeting us here, like minds, pondering the same problems. We didn't come up with any solutions, didn't solve the dilemma of how creative people in New York, freelancers whose calendars were not-too-long-ago filled with high-paying work for print magazines and other dying media, will now get paid. We'll have to leave that for Rupert Murdoch. But we brainstormed, we acknowledged each other's challenges and, somehow, for the moment, we felt we'd done something. At the very least, we'd made a connection. She walked away wearing her gold star, looking great, and waved, our new friend. Hopefully she will enter into our world again.
Yesterday, another beautiful day I started on the bench, the conversation with another regular turned to politics. I had asked him to summarize the paper for me, given that I never read it. It is too much, I'd rather get the synopsis through chat.
"Well," he said, "China may lower its currency..."
"Really?" I said. "Would they do it?"
"Well," he said, "if they don't, they're really screwing us..."
I laughed. "That's not why they'll do it. They'll only do it if them screwing us screws them." It is the theory of enlightened self-interest that I believe applies to people and governments everywhere. No one does anything, usually, that doesn't in some way benefit them. Making changes is hard and there has to be something in it for someone to get up the energy to do it, to try.
It's hard to know how exactly to trigger people to try. We talked a bit about this, about the idea of sanctions versus war (I vote for sanctions), and about how consultants are cropping up all over in this new economy, charging people for their ideas on how they might try better across all facets of life, both personal and professional.
"The problem," I said, "is that they charge you but, in the end, they're usually just repeating you back to you..."
He nodded. "And you still have to do the work."
I laughed. "Exactly." He had gone on his own recently, left corporate law for the freedom of practicing in shorts and a t-shirt from home. He had engaged a friend's life coach skills, which he said had helped him understand a bit more what he wanted and didn't want, even just because she read in his voice what he liked and didn't like about his old job.
I gave him a gold star when he got up to go, to drum up business, to help people with their various and sundry legal issues. It's not easy, the life of the self-employed. But it can be very, very rewarding. And the beauty is, you can sit on a bench meeting people far more often.
One woman, wearing a great red dress and wedges, paused slightly as my friend and I sat on the bench against the wall.
"Did you want to sit?" my friend asked her.
"Well...for just a minute," she said gratefully and pulled up a chair. Turns out she was on her way to a photo shoot for a book she is writing with her husband, a decorating book about how to make stuff yourself from what you find in the hardware store. She, like my friend and I, is trying to navigate the tricky world of self-promotion without selling out, to figure how to pay the mortgage and keep her kids fed while staying true to her ideals.
She shook her head at the coincidence of meeting us here, like minds, pondering the same problems. We didn't come up with any solutions, didn't solve the dilemma of how creative people in New York, freelancers whose calendars were not-too-long-ago filled with high-paying work for print magazines and other dying media, will now get paid. We'll have to leave that for Rupert Murdoch. But we brainstormed, we acknowledged each other's challenges and, somehow, for the moment, we felt we'd done something. At the very least, we'd made a connection. She walked away wearing her gold star, looking great, and waved, our new friend. Hopefully she will enter into our world again.
Yesterday, another beautiful day I started on the bench, the conversation with another regular turned to politics. I had asked him to summarize the paper for me, given that I never read it. It is too much, I'd rather get the synopsis through chat.
"Well," he said, "China may lower its currency..."
"Really?" I said. "Would they do it?"
"Well," he said, "if they don't, they're really screwing us..."
I laughed. "That's not why they'll do it. They'll only do it if them screwing us screws them." It is the theory of enlightened self-interest that I believe applies to people and governments everywhere. No one does anything, usually, that doesn't in some way benefit them. Making changes is hard and there has to be something in it for someone to get up the energy to do it, to try.
It's hard to know how exactly to trigger people to try. We talked a bit about this, about the idea of sanctions versus war (I vote for sanctions), and about how consultants are cropping up all over in this new economy, charging people for their ideas on how they might try better across all facets of life, both personal and professional.
"The problem," I said, "is that they charge you but, in the end, they're usually just repeating you back to you..."
He nodded. "And you still have to do the work."
I laughed. "Exactly." He had gone on his own recently, left corporate law for the freedom of practicing in shorts and a t-shirt from home. He had engaged a friend's life coach skills, which he said had helped him understand a bit more what he wanted and didn't want, even just because she read in his voice what he liked and didn't like about his old job.
I gave him a gold star when he got up to go, to drum up business, to help people with their various and sundry legal issues. It's not easy, the life of the self-employed. But it can be very, very rewarding. And the beauty is, you can sit on a bench meeting people far more often.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Seeing The Other Side
It was a long day with the kids in the park yesterday. Ten days and counting that Mommy, not school, has entertained and educated. I was feeling pretty surly. By the looks of it, behind me in line at Union Market, everyone else was too.
I turned back to the checkout girl, shaking my head. I have decided to embrace these girls, often surly themselves, with kindness and a smile rather than a snarky attitude. It has helped.
I leaned in. "How many people, would you say, come up here with a smile on their face?" I asked as she rung up my overpriced ground beef and peppers. It was taco night.
She stopped ringing and looked up, wracking her brain. "Hmmm..." she said.
"Percentage-wise?" I goosed her.
She shook her head. "Not many, that's for sure."
The checkout girl next door, who had barked at me that she "wasn't open!" piped in.
"People are mad," she said, "and they take it out on us!"
I dared not look behind me again as I pulled out my stars and handed them to all four cashiers with a smile.
"See, if people smiled more, if they were friendlier, you'd be friendlier back, right?" I asked. They all nodded, smiling now because of their stars, because one of "them," these miserable line-standers that walked up one by one with a snarl, had taken notice of their plight, noticed them not just the too-high numbers appearing on the register's screen as it sub-totalled.
I walked out more sure than ever about my Gold Star Project and the sentiment behind it, the sentiment that says that seeing people, really stopping and taking notice of their efforts, pays off in the end, for everyone.
After tacos, a family fave, I set out with the boys for the movies, to How To Tame A Dragon, in 3-D. My expectations were low, always a good way to go in. It didn't matter. Just seeing the boys slunk in their seats in rapt attention behind their big glasses was entertainment enough.
I often fall asleep in animated movies. I cannot help it. In this one, there was no chance of that. It was action-packed from the first moment on, and totally gripping. I even screamed, startled a couple of times when the dragons whipped around out of nowhere. The message was hard-hitting and clear, a really, really important one, one that reminded me very much of my earlier incident at Union Market: we have to get to know the enemy--in this case dragons--and, by doing so, we can figure them or, at the very least, fail to be able to kill them.
When, at the end, the young peacemaking Viking protagonist prevails, convincing his Viking leader father and the town to make dragons friends rather than foes, having felled the big beast they served, Oscar let out a big satisfied sigh.
"Aaaah," he said with a smile, "they're happy now..."
I started crying. I wish it were as simple as the movie made it seem. As we walked out, the themes were strong in the kids' minds: darkness versus light, understanding instead of matching violence with violence.
"How come all the dragons kept going back to feed that big dragon, Mommy?" Eli asked, "How come they didn't just fly away somewhere else?"
We had just been discussing World Wars that morning as Eli read one of his favorite books on presidents.
"Well," I said, "it's like with Hitler, why did people agree to do his bidding, to kill other people? He convinced them that they had to do that, that it was the right thing, the necessary thing to protect themselves."
As they seemed amenable, I went on, talking about how some people fought it, but that, sadly, Hitler, like many evil leaders before and after him, was able to make darkness prevail.
Eli stopped and turned to me on the sidewalk open-mouthed by the comparison. "Oh my God," he said, "you're right, it's exactly like World War II!"
Kudos to the makers of How to Tame A Dragon, to the writer. The lessons learned, in an entertaining way, were serious ones, ones that we as adults often forget: we are all of us in this together and time is too precious not to smile and see each other, to help each other through, all of us, on every side.
I turned back to the checkout girl, shaking my head. I have decided to embrace these girls, often surly themselves, with kindness and a smile rather than a snarky attitude. It has helped.
I leaned in. "How many people, would you say, come up here with a smile on their face?" I asked as she rung up my overpriced ground beef and peppers. It was taco night.
She stopped ringing and looked up, wracking her brain. "Hmmm..." she said.
"Percentage-wise?" I goosed her.
She shook her head. "Not many, that's for sure."
The checkout girl next door, who had barked at me that she "wasn't open!" piped in.
"People are mad," she said, "and they take it out on us!"
I dared not look behind me again as I pulled out my stars and handed them to all four cashiers with a smile.
"See, if people smiled more, if they were friendlier, you'd be friendlier back, right?" I asked. They all nodded, smiling now because of their stars, because one of "them," these miserable line-standers that walked up one by one with a snarl, had taken notice of their plight, noticed them not just the too-high numbers appearing on the register's screen as it sub-totalled.
I walked out more sure than ever about my Gold Star Project and the sentiment behind it, the sentiment that says that seeing people, really stopping and taking notice of their efforts, pays off in the end, for everyone.
After tacos, a family fave, I set out with the boys for the movies, to How To Tame A Dragon, in 3-D. My expectations were low, always a good way to go in. It didn't matter. Just seeing the boys slunk in their seats in rapt attention behind their big glasses was entertainment enough.
I often fall asleep in animated movies. I cannot help it. In this one, there was no chance of that. It was action-packed from the first moment on, and totally gripping. I even screamed, startled a couple of times when the dragons whipped around out of nowhere. The message was hard-hitting and clear, a really, really important one, one that reminded me very much of my earlier incident at Union Market: we have to get to know the enemy--in this case dragons--and, by doing so, we can figure them or, at the very least, fail to be able to kill them.
When, at the end, the young peacemaking Viking protagonist prevails, convincing his Viking leader father and the town to make dragons friends rather than foes, having felled the big beast they served, Oscar let out a big satisfied sigh.
"Aaaah," he said with a smile, "they're happy now..."
I started crying. I wish it were as simple as the movie made it seem. As we walked out, the themes were strong in the kids' minds: darkness versus light, understanding instead of matching violence with violence.
"How come all the dragons kept going back to feed that big dragon, Mommy?" Eli asked, "How come they didn't just fly away somewhere else?"
We had just been discussing World Wars that morning as Eli read one of his favorite books on presidents.
"Well," I said, "it's like with Hitler, why did people agree to do his bidding, to kill other people? He convinced them that they had to do that, that it was the right thing, the necessary thing to protect themselves."
As they seemed amenable, I went on, talking about how some people fought it, but that, sadly, Hitler, like many evil leaders before and after him, was able to make darkness prevail.
Eli stopped and turned to me on the sidewalk open-mouthed by the comparison. "Oh my God," he said, "you're right, it's exactly like World War II!"
Kudos to the makers of How to Tame A Dragon, to the writer. The lessons learned, in an entertaining way, were serious ones, ones that we as adults often forget: we are all of us in this together and time is too precious not to smile and see each other, to help each other through, all of us, on every side.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
The Attentions of Man
As I walked out of my apartment yesterday morning, to the gym, happy as a clam to get back to my routine, a couple was walking by. The man looked at me, then looked back, took a long head-to-toe gander, taking in the full affect of my spandex-pant/sweatshirt ensemble, my bed-head. He turned fully to continue staring as I passed. I smiled as I moved on: this is why I love Brooklyn, I thought. There is so much humanity here, so many people to take notice of you, even on mornings when little care has been taken with one's appearance. You're bound to get some kind of attention.
The same cannot be said of other places. Virginia, for example, offered far fewer opportunities for connection and attention. Take, for example, the older gentleman at the toll booth as we entered Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park. A friendly gent, looking for friends, he asked, apropos of nothing, "You guys ice skate?"
Geordie laughed, like he was making a joke and didn't bite really.
"Aren't you wonderin' why I asked you that, 'bout ice skatin'?" he said.
"Um, sure," Geordie said, not quite convincingly. I peered around from the passenger side to see the face of the disembodied desperate voice.
"It's cuz I love to ice skate!" he said happily. "I'm gonna get me a new pair of skates and there's a rink right close to where I live, out by Lynchburg...so by next season..."
Geord smiled. "Great!" he said. I piped in too. "That's great!" I said. There was little left to say on the subject and we needed to get moving. As we did, it made me sad. This poor man has no one to talk to, no one to pay attention to him. Although, I suppose, a fair number of cars roll through. I imagine he stops them all for as long a period as they will allow.
He reminded me of another man, a farmer who works as a short-order cook at the cafe at the base of the mountain in the winter months. When I'd come in for an Americano for the second time during my stay, he looked at me quizzically. "Did you cut your hair? You had it up last time..."
We had spoken briefly, exchanged hellos, but, I supposed, he didn't see too many folks 'round these parts, during the short hours the place was open. He introduced himself, was obviously someone who loved to meet new people. He had a friend in Brooklyn he stayed with sometimes, he said, and loved it.
In Brooklyn it can be true, too, of course, that people live in isolation. But whenever I'm feeling the need for a little human contact, I have a wide variety of cafes and stores I can visit to shoot the breeze. Sitting outside at Colson's yesterday, I found myself embroiled in great conversation quickly with a woman I've met on occasion. Later, at Naidre's, conversation in line turned to the dangers of religion and the pathetic reality that there might never be peace in the Middle East. It is common that cafe lines turn into great group conversations with only the slightest provocation.
Some people, to be fair, find the press of humanity in a big city overwhelming. People that I spoke to in Virginia, who had moved to the lowly populated Nelson County from someplace larger, loved it. They loved, as one store owner put it, "just walking my land at night," the moon their only company.
I thought of that yesterday, driving Oscar to a birthday party at a bowling alley deeper into crazy-crowded Brooklyn. As we waited at a stop light, his impatience mounted.
"Come on! Go Mommy!" he yelled.
"It's red, Oscar," I said, impatient with his impatience. And then it occurred to me: we hadn't waited for stoplights in Nelson County. There was only one there, our brewery waitress had told us proudly, and that had not gone in without a fight.
I said this to Oscar, reminded him that his impatience was likely a result of not having had to wait at stoplights in Virginia, where there hadn't been any.
"Why not? Why do we have them here?" he asked.
I explained that there we were often alone on the road without another car in sight, a phenomenon that is rarely the case in traffic-filled Brooklyn.
"If there were no stoplights here, like if there were no air traffic controllers at airports, there would be chaos, cars crashing into each other..."
It is a concept I come to a lot living in a big city, with many others, the concept that things we don't like, rules we don't want to live by, are a necessary evil when it comes to running things smoothly for the masses. It is the downside of being thrown amongst so many others, that personal freedoms must be sacrificed for the greater good.
I have to admit that it was annoying waiting for those stoplights when we had known for a while the joys of driving straight through without stopping for long periods of time. But it is worth it, I think. As is waiting in the long lines at Naidre's or Union Market. As much as I might have my moments of misanthropy, may need to get away from the throngs for a day or three or five, I am only too happy to return, to look and be looked at by many others of my most beautiful species of man, by chance to speak to them and have them speak to me. In those interactions inlies immense possibility that I often cannot conjure alone.
As is typical upon my return home, a big gold star goes out to Brooklyn.
The same cannot be said of other places. Virginia, for example, offered far fewer opportunities for connection and attention. Take, for example, the older gentleman at the toll booth as we entered Skyline Drive in Shenandoah National Park. A friendly gent, looking for friends, he asked, apropos of nothing, "You guys ice skate?"
Geordie laughed, like he was making a joke and didn't bite really.
"Aren't you wonderin' why I asked you that, 'bout ice skatin'?" he said.
"Um, sure," Geordie said, not quite convincingly. I peered around from the passenger side to see the face of the disembodied desperate voice.
"It's cuz I love to ice skate!" he said happily. "I'm gonna get me a new pair of skates and there's a rink right close to where I live, out by Lynchburg...so by next season..."
Geord smiled. "Great!" he said. I piped in too. "That's great!" I said. There was little left to say on the subject and we needed to get moving. As we did, it made me sad. This poor man has no one to talk to, no one to pay attention to him. Although, I suppose, a fair number of cars roll through. I imagine he stops them all for as long a period as they will allow.
He reminded me of another man, a farmer who works as a short-order cook at the cafe at the base of the mountain in the winter months. When I'd come in for an Americano for the second time during my stay, he looked at me quizzically. "Did you cut your hair? You had it up last time..."
We had spoken briefly, exchanged hellos, but, I supposed, he didn't see too many folks 'round these parts, during the short hours the place was open. He introduced himself, was obviously someone who loved to meet new people. He had a friend in Brooklyn he stayed with sometimes, he said, and loved it.
In Brooklyn it can be true, too, of course, that people live in isolation. But whenever I'm feeling the need for a little human contact, I have a wide variety of cafes and stores I can visit to shoot the breeze. Sitting outside at Colson's yesterday, I found myself embroiled in great conversation quickly with a woman I've met on occasion. Later, at Naidre's, conversation in line turned to the dangers of religion and the pathetic reality that there might never be peace in the Middle East. It is common that cafe lines turn into great group conversations with only the slightest provocation.
Some people, to be fair, find the press of humanity in a big city overwhelming. People that I spoke to in Virginia, who had moved to the lowly populated Nelson County from someplace larger, loved it. They loved, as one store owner put it, "just walking my land at night," the moon their only company.
I thought of that yesterday, driving Oscar to a birthday party at a bowling alley deeper into crazy-crowded Brooklyn. As we waited at a stop light, his impatience mounted.
"Come on! Go Mommy!" he yelled.
"It's red, Oscar," I said, impatient with his impatience. And then it occurred to me: we hadn't waited for stoplights in Nelson County. There was only one there, our brewery waitress had told us proudly, and that had not gone in without a fight.
I said this to Oscar, reminded him that his impatience was likely a result of not having had to wait at stoplights in Virginia, where there hadn't been any.
"Why not? Why do we have them here?" he asked.
I explained that there we were often alone on the road without another car in sight, a phenomenon that is rarely the case in traffic-filled Brooklyn.
"If there were no stoplights here, like if there were no air traffic controllers at airports, there would be chaos, cars crashing into each other..."
It is a concept I come to a lot living in a big city, with many others, the concept that things we don't like, rules we don't want to live by, are a necessary evil when it comes to running things smoothly for the masses. It is the downside of being thrown amongst so many others, that personal freedoms must be sacrificed for the greater good.
I have to admit that it was annoying waiting for those stoplights when we had known for a while the joys of driving straight through without stopping for long periods of time. But it is worth it, I think. As is waiting in the long lines at Naidre's or Union Market. As much as I might have my moments of misanthropy, may need to get away from the throngs for a day or three or five, I am only too happy to return, to look and be looked at by many others of my most beautiful species of man, by chance to speak to them and have them speak to me. In those interactions inlies immense possibility that I often cannot conjure alone.
As is typical upon my return home, a big gold star goes out to Brooklyn.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Visiting 'Ol Virginny
We were in the Virginia mountain-top retreat for six days. We arrived on Sunday afternoon in the fog, seeing the sign for Wintergreen in the mist only because it was huge and green. Otherwise, all we saw was white. I felt like I was in Heaven Can Wait, except Warren Beatty wasn’t with us. Darn.
We struggled to see the street signs that would tell us we had arrived at Ridges Road. Once there, unloading in the windstorm, our friends promised the view out of the many windows that now looked upon clouds and rain would open up, when the weather cleared, onto a spectacular mountain range. We weren’t sure how long we would have to wait. Luckily, it was only until the next morning, when the fog lifted slowly to reveal layers of mountain ridges the likes of which even I, an Arizona girl, have never seen. There were likenesses of the view in paintings all over the house but, of course, they couldn’t capture even nearly what it looked like to stare straight out at the waves of blue outlining, it seemed, the universe.
We have loved the people of Western Virginia. Their hospitality has been unparalleled and our expectations have been exceeded in terms of service and quality of goods every time, which is saying a lot for a group of spoiled New Yorkers. I gave a gold star to our waitress at the brewery we visited at the base of the mountain. Skiers having skied their last day, summer hikers not yet arrived, business was slow. But the sweet smiling girl didn’t show any upset, she just explained the different beer varieties with expertise and gave us great tips on where to go and what to do in this area from which she so proudly hailed.
“It’s beautiful here,” I said, looking out the restaurant’s big picture windows onto the valley and the green hills beyond on which picturesque houses sat shadowed by tall budding trees.
She smiled warmly, not tired herself of the views after 20-some-odd years. “It is beautiful,” she said. If she’s anything like my father or others like him in my native state, she will never tire of it. Looking at the mountains, for many, offers a solace that little else does. I can see that, for sure.
We went to Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson. We had been warned it would be stuffy, that our loud kids might be shushed. But we went anyway. Eli is obsessed with presidents, and was happy to impart his learned wisdom, correcting misinformation an adult had given me about Jefferson and Monroe having died on the same day.
“No, Mommy,” he said, reciting from the Book of Presidents he checked out three separate times from his school library. “It was Jefferson and Adams who died on the same day, on the fourth of July…” Turns out, Monroe also died on July 4, only in a different year. I might have learned all this once, many moons ago, but I did not recall any of it. That’s what’s nice about having no memory. Everything old is new again.
We eschewed the shuttle bus to hit the trail from the visitor’s center to the grounds of Monticello, hitting first upon Jefferson’s family cemetery in which he and his children and grandchildren are buried. A movie had told us that many of his children had died early, that only two had survived. Oscar pointed at little gravestones behind Jefferson’s own.
Quietly he said, “Those must be his children…”
As we walked up the hill, to the gardens, we stopped to chat with the gardener, who tended lovingly to a new weeping willow tree, planted to replace others that had been eroded by pests. Deer, too, are a problem, he said, because of the bountiful buffet laid out for them in the samples of the kinds of fruits and vegetables a household in the 1800s, high on a hill, had to grow to feed its many mouths, including 140 slaves that Jefferson wanted to free but felt he couldn’t. Dogs are placed next to the house to chase off the deer and one man is allowed to hunt them. Last year, he killed 66, the gardener said sheepishly. He was awesome. He said he wished he could follow us up over the hill to see our reaction to the amazing house. Like our waitress, like seemingly everyone in the area, he was so proud of what he did, the grounds he worked to preserve. He definitely deserved his gold star, he wore it proudly.
We wandered around among the newly planted vegetables and then into the underground rooms that house Jefferson’s ingenious modern-for-the-time kitchen, ice house, and wine-bottling and beer-brewing rooms. The kids wrote their names with a feather and ink.
As we toured the house with our inspired smiling guide, a woman who said over and over again how much there was to learn about Jefferson and Monticello, how much she herself learned every day, a picture of the president emerged clearly: he was curious. He wanted, obviously, to figure answers to everything. The guide told a story as we walked through his private apartment, past a little windowed solarium filled with flowers that I could happily have sat in forever. She said he had brought mockingbirds with him to France and noticed, once there, that the birds were making a strange new sound, a creaking kind of sound. He determined, with much figuring I imagine, that the new sound was a mocking of the sound of the ship they had taken to cross the Atlantic, the back-and-forth creaking of the ship’s planks. So cool. He wanted answers to everything and he solved a lot of problems by thinking of how things might be done differently. Eli’s favorite example was Jefferson’s creation of the swivel chair.
Sadly, Jefferson couldn’t solve the slave issue, left it, the film had told us, to future generations to fix. But he set the stage for personal freedom with the Declaration of Independence and with philosophies such as the separation of church and state that sought to end tyranny over thought, to leave people alone to ponder their own God. He was not wise in the ways of money, signing for others’ loans, often helping others at the expense of himself and his own family, developing debts that his grandchildren apparently paid off. He was a major thinker, Jefferson, money was just a tool, a means rather than an end. Our guide, who Oscar whispered to me to give a gold star, was mesmerized by the many ways in which Jefferson’s brilliant mind created solutions for societal ills we still deal with today.
We sometimes eschew these solutions, like personal freedoms, because we are afraid, because we don’t know how to inspire people to want to work hard, to believe in themselves. But Jefferson obviously believed in people and empowered them. He started the University of Virginia, which we saw in the distance from the decks he built off the sides of his house, probably decks he built on which to ponder. It is obvious here, in this area, that Jefferson’s legacy of pride and curiosity still lives strong. It is impressive. A big gold star for Virginia, at least these parts.
We struggled to see the street signs that would tell us we had arrived at Ridges Road. Once there, unloading in the windstorm, our friends promised the view out of the many windows that now looked upon clouds and rain would open up, when the weather cleared, onto a spectacular mountain range. We weren’t sure how long we would have to wait. Luckily, it was only until the next morning, when the fog lifted slowly to reveal layers of mountain ridges the likes of which even I, an Arizona girl, have never seen. There were likenesses of the view in paintings all over the house but, of course, they couldn’t capture even nearly what it looked like to stare straight out at the waves of blue outlining, it seemed, the universe.
We have loved the people of Western Virginia. Their hospitality has been unparalleled and our expectations have been exceeded in terms of service and quality of goods every time, which is saying a lot for a group of spoiled New Yorkers. I gave a gold star to our waitress at the brewery we visited at the base of the mountain. Skiers having skied their last day, summer hikers not yet arrived, business was slow. But the sweet smiling girl didn’t show any upset, she just explained the different beer varieties with expertise and gave us great tips on where to go and what to do in this area from which she so proudly hailed.
“It’s beautiful here,” I said, looking out the restaurant’s big picture windows onto the valley and the green hills beyond on which picturesque houses sat shadowed by tall budding trees.
She smiled warmly, not tired herself of the views after 20-some-odd years. “It is beautiful,” she said. If she’s anything like my father or others like him in my native state, she will never tire of it. Looking at the mountains, for many, offers a solace that little else does. I can see that, for sure.
We went to Monticello, the home of Thomas Jefferson. We had been warned it would be stuffy, that our loud kids might be shushed. But we went anyway. Eli is obsessed with presidents, and was happy to impart his learned wisdom, correcting misinformation an adult had given me about Jefferson and Monroe having died on the same day.
“No, Mommy,” he said, reciting from the Book of Presidents he checked out three separate times from his school library. “It was Jefferson and Adams who died on the same day, on the fourth of July…” Turns out, Monroe also died on July 4, only in a different year. I might have learned all this once, many moons ago, but I did not recall any of it. That’s what’s nice about having no memory. Everything old is new again.
We eschewed the shuttle bus to hit the trail from the visitor’s center to the grounds of Monticello, hitting first upon Jefferson’s family cemetery in which he and his children and grandchildren are buried. A movie had told us that many of his children had died early, that only two had survived. Oscar pointed at little gravestones behind Jefferson’s own.
Quietly he said, “Those must be his children…”
As we walked up the hill, to the gardens, we stopped to chat with the gardener, who tended lovingly to a new weeping willow tree, planted to replace others that had been eroded by pests. Deer, too, are a problem, he said, because of the bountiful buffet laid out for them in the samples of the kinds of fruits and vegetables a household in the 1800s, high on a hill, had to grow to feed its many mouths, including 140 slaves that Jefferson wanted to free but felt he couldn’t. Dogs are placed next to the house to chase off the deer and one man is allowed to hunt them. Last year, he killed 66, the gardener said sheepishly. He was awesome. He said he wished he could follow us up over the hill to see our reaction to the amazing house. Like our waitress, like seemingly everyone in the area, he was so proud of what he did, the grounds he worked to preserve. He definitely deserved his gold star, he wore it proudly.
We wandered around among the newly planted vegetables and then into the underground rooms that house Jefferson’s ingenious modern-for-the-time kitchen, ice house, and wine-bottling and beer-brewing rooms. The kids wrote their names with a feather and ink.
As we toured the house with our inspired smiling guide, a woman who said over and over again how much there was to learn about Jefferson and Monticello, how much she herself learned every day, a picture of the president emerged clearly: he was curious. He wanted, obviously, to figure answers to everything. The guide told a story as we walked through his private apartment, past a little windowed solarium filled with flowers that I could happily have sat in forever. She said he had brought mockingbirds with him to France and noticed, once there, that the birds were making a strange new sound, a creaking kind of sound. He determined, with much figuring I imagine, that the new sound was a mocking of the sound of the ship they had taken to cross the Atlantic, the back-and-forth creaking of the ship’s planks. So cool. He wanted answers to everything and he solved a lot of problems by thinking of how things might be done differently. Eli’s favorite example was Jefferson’s creation of the swivel chair.
Sadly, Jefferson couldn’t solve the slave issue, left it, the film had told us, to future generations to fix. But he set the stage for personal freedom with the Declaration of Independence and with philosophies such as the separation of church and state that sought to end tyranny over thought, to leave people alone to ponder their own God. He was not wise in the ways of money, signing for others’ loans, often helping others at the expense of himself and his own family, developing debts that his grandchildren apparently paid off. He was a major thinker, Jefferson, money was just a tool, a means rather than an end. Our guide, who Oscar whispered to me to give a gold star, was mesmerized by the many ways in which Jefferson’s brilliant mind created solutions for societal ills we still deal with today.
We sometimes eschew these solutions, like personal freedoms, because we are afraid, because we don’t know how to inspire people to want to work hard, to believe in themselves. But Jefferson obviously believed in people and empowered them. He started the University of Virginia, which we saw in the distance from the decks he built off the sides of his house, probably decks he built on which to ponder. It is obvious here, in this area, that Jefferson’s legacy of pride and curiosity still lives strong. It is impressive. A big gold star for Virginia, at least these parts.
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