Highlights 2010

One of the year’s highlights is publishing my yearly newsletter, “Dr. Mar’s Highlights 2010.” The process goes like this: I pick out my favorite photos--those that make me smile. Once the photos are in place, I ask myself: What is it about this photo that makes me smile. When I get the answer, I write the story. You see why I love publishing “Highlights.” It makes me happy to reflect back on all the wonderful moments of the year. Plus, there are always surprises.

For example, I realized as I wrote the lead article the importance of Order this past year. It seemed that from the moment I got home to Gerryland, I scurried around, here to there, doing this and that--all to establish order in my life that felt so dis-ordered, neglected, after extended stays in Utah.

I didn’t beat myself up (a deeply rooted, old pattern) about this. Instead, I decided consciously to go with the flow and allow the process to manifest itself. I unpacked bins, chased off critters, cleared out drawers, built shelves, caulked up cracks, laid down rugs, and, through it all, the process did manifest itself. It is this: Establish external order first as a template for new patterning of internal order. In 2010, the work was outside. In 2011, the work moves inside. Rather than feel like a waste of time, it feels like I accomplished a lot. This makes me happy. Can’t wait to see what follows.

Another surprise was this realization: The further I moved away for the old patterns, the better I liked myself. Rationally, I knew this to be true. This past year, 2010, I felt it for real. This was the biggest, best surprise of all!

New Year’s resolution: 52 mid-week posts to Dr. Mar’s Daybook.

Happy New Year!

Year's Best

This final blog of 2010 I dedicate to my favorite novel of the year, Elegance of the Hedgehog by French author, Muriel Barbery. I loved the book! Best of the year!

Earlier this month, Blues met to discuss the novel. Not all comments were favorable. Carolyn rattled off a list of flaws that disqualified the novel from the realm of ‘serious’ literature--unconvincing characters, implausible plot, over-reliance on coincidence. Though funny and wise in spots, Carolyn observed that the novel ‘nibbled at the edges’ of serious fiction. Martha agreed. Helen nodded to me as if to say: You take it.

I pretty much disagreed with Carolyn on everything. I loved the two main characters, Renee and Paloma--the way the two came to the same conclusions from two different perspectives. Most of all, I loved the intellectual banter, the play of philosophy and cultural criticism through generational, class and ethnic difference. In short, the novel conveys a whole lot of intellectual baggage with grace, wit and charm. C’est vraiment elegante.

I reached the mid-point of the French edition of the book, having struggled for weeks with the language, which is easy compared to the more difficult aspect of the book: Phenomenology. The novel, in my view, is a sophisticated play upon Phenomenology; and understanding this strain of thought is key to understanding, hence, appreciating the novel. So this weekend, I waded ankle-deep into Phenomenology, the study of concretely experienced phenomenon, free from conceptual presuppositions, that underlies the structure of the thing itself.

Wrap your brain around that, then ask: What thing? Answer: Any act of consciousness in which the thing reveals itself to itself. Got that?

Phenomenology theorizes the possibility of direct access to knowledge through experience, unmediated by cultural meanings and presuppositions. Moreover, in this intentional ‘act of consciousness’ (the thing itself), the essential structure of the thing itself is revealed, as well as the essential relationships between the thing itself and the its objects of apprehension.

That’s the hard way of describing Phenomenology. An easier way, as Helen suggested, is this: Being aware of being aware. I’ll offer another: The experience of knowing that you know something without knowing how or why. Like intuition. A word, a movement, an image triggers a ‘direct experience’ in which you suddenly know the deep meaning of something that reveals the meaning of the thing itself as well as your relationship to it. You know the thing. You know that you know but haven’t a clue how you know.

Here’s a ‘for instance,’ Elizabeth Edwards, wife of Johnny, died two weeks ago. Not long before her death, I saw her. I was driving toward town late one afternoon along Old Greensboro Road. Just there, at the circular paved entrance to the Edwards compound, a car slowly approached the drive. Behind the wheel, alone in the car, sat a woman lost in thought, her face illuminated by the low-hanging sun.

Before thinking of whom she might be, a memory flashed in my mind--the memory of my mother as she turned into the driveway of our house in Idaho Falls upon her return from a week-long trip to Salt Lake. I remember sitting on the curb all afternoon waiting for her green and white Ford station wagon to appear. Dad worried was that she might not come home--their marriage at a low point--and stay in Salt Lake. What that might mean to the family was what kept me on the curb throughout that hot, summer afternoon.

At long last, the green station wagon appeared, moving slowly, wearily up the street. As the station wagon drew closer, I could see my mother behind the wheel. The look on her face matched that of Elizabeth Edwards. A look of determination, resignation and, above all, sadness. Instantly, without thought, I knew what Elizabeth Edwards was experiencing at that moment. And I knew that I knew. She was weary. She was resigned, determined and very, very sad.

The Elegance of the Hedgehog is full of these ‘phenomenological’ moments. My favorite is the moment when Renee, the hedgehog, reveals herself to Ozu. In the section, “Infinitesimal” (pp.134-6), Jacinthe Rosen tries to ingratiate herself to Ozu, the new owner. Will the concierge please show Mr. Ozu the out-buildings? Show him where to pick up the mail. She notices the door mat hasn’t been cleaned. In a grammatical slip, Mme. Rosen asks if the concierge would please bring the door mat to the cleaners?

Without thinking, Renee cringes at Mme. Rosen’s grammatical error. She notices that Ozu also cringes. In that infinitesimal nano-second, she is sure that the two are joined “in linguistic solidarity by the shared pain that made our bodies shudder . . . .” Renee also realizes that in that infinitesimal nano-second that Ozu has found her out. In the moment, he sees the essential structure of (essence of) Renee and thus sees his own relationship to her. Henceforth, Ozu observes Renee with “a very different gaze. A watchful gaze (p. 134).”

There are many other examples of these phenomenological moments in the book. Certainly there is more to glean from how the author plays these out in the narrative. What interests me are the applications, insights of Phenomenology upon Elegance. Specifically, the idea of direct, unmediated knowledge that flows from experience, knowledge that reveals the essence of the thing apprehended and the essential structure of relationship between knower and known.

Chew on that awhile!

Wishing to all a very Happy New Year!

What Do French Women Know?

What French Women Know about love, sex, and other matters of the heart and mind, by Debra Ollivier (2009).

What do French women know about love, sex and matter of mind and heart? According to Debra Ollivier, they know a lot. Certainly a lot, a lot more than their American sisters across the pond. This book popped right off the shelf. A comparative cultural study of sex from the perspective of the French woman? That sounds interesting.

The author is not French herself. She’s from California. She studied in France as a student. Later, she followed un beau garcon to Paris and returned swearing she would have nothing more to do with the French. Ever! Then voila, she met another Frenchman and away she went--marriage, children, French citizenship, the whole nine yards.

Ollivier trots breezily through the many differences between American and French attitudes on matters of the heart. To list a few: French women like men a lot, a lot (no sex wars in France). As one quipped, if one did not like men, a lot a lot, one would despise them. French women enjoy flirting, whether married or not. They love mystery, ambiguity and nuance. (Nothing kills romance faster than ‘too much information.’) They pursue pleasure without guilt. Pleasure is good, also fleeting, so grab it when you can. And, no one is perfect, least of all a man! Rather than distain imperfection, the French find it fascinating.

The list goes on leading to the exciting climax, recounted in the final chapter, Ollivier’s answer to why French women don’t get fat. And why don’t French women get fat? In France, c’est interdit. Forbidden. This, the one rule pertaining to matters of the heart that French women obey.

The book is an interesting read--entertaining, witty, and times inciting--a book sure to inspire provocative discussion on this side of the pond.

World Unseen

“The World Unseen” (2007), based on a novel of the same name by Shamim Sarif, is the kind of movie I like in that it depicts the lives of two women who stand up for what they want. It’s a woman’s story about crossing boundaries. As Liz Gilbert might say: “Attraversiamo!” Let us cross over.

Set in Capetown, South Africa, in the early days of the apartheid regime, the story revolves around Ameena, a young woman of Indian descent who resists the traditional marriage-wife-mother path, choosing instead, to pursue another course. She wears trousers; learns to drive; and opens a restaurant with Frederick, an older man of mixed race. The two team up to open a restaurant for mixed-race non-whites, primarily Indians and Asians. African blacks are not allowed.

The restaurant is routinely harassed by police who bully their way inside, inflicting as much damage as possible. Despite the harassment, the business flourishes. The food is good, the atmosphere inviting. Boundary-crosser though she may be, Ameena learns to stay just within the bounds of apartheid law, realizing that the popular restaurant is itself an act of resistance.

While giving the civil government its due, Ameena insists upon asserting her ‘human’ right to love whom she pleases. Turns out, that someone is Miriam, a pregnant Indian woman, mother of two, whose husband rates dead level on the A-Hole scale with the apartheid police. The plot thickens when Ameena’s grandmother decides that she must marry and opens negotiations with the family of a prospective groom. The plot rocks and rolls from there.

A crucial scene comes when Miriam finds Ameena in her bedroom, dressed in traditional Indian garb, prior to her meeting the prospective groom and family. Ameena is miserable. The two women have just begun to acknowledge their feelings for each other, yet, Ameena feels the weight of tradition bearing down, forcing her toward her ‘natural’ role as wife and mother. Surprisingly, it is Miriam, married at 19 (like me) who encourages Ameena to resist. “Wear what you like,” she says. Buoyed up by this, Ameena puts on her trousers and goes off to meet the groom.

Later Miriam questions Ameena about her pugnacity. Where did she get the idea that she could have a life of her choosing? The idea never would have, never could have occurred to her. Every woman she had known, or heard of ‘chose’ to marry when given the opportunity. There was no other way. “I wish I could be like you,” Miriam laments. To this Ameena responds, “Be careful what you wish for.”

Throughout the story, Miriam grows stronger as 1) she begins to imagine a different life for herself; and 2) she acknowledges how miserable she is in her marriage. When Ameena suggests that they run off together, Miriam refuses. She also defies her husband, telling him that she plans to take a job in town despite his objections. When he threatens to beat her into submission, she calmly looks him in the eye and says, “You must find another way to speak to me.”

What happens next is left hanging. Will Ameena and Miriam get together and live happily ever after? Who knows? The only certainty offered is that Miriam has ‘crossed over.’

An Unstructured Day--Addendum

Missing pict . . .

An Unstructured Day

Joni and Andrew were up and out early this morning, off to work; Joni in a pink, glittered suit (meeting with the boss’s boss), Andrew in beige shorts and black shirt bearing JimmyJohn logo. As the door slams behind them, the whirlwind subsides,18-month old Mya and I look at each other. I don’t know what she’s thinking, but I’m thinking “OMG!” A whole day with this kid.

Right then, I made a decision. This child lives such an ordered, structured life that my gift to her will be an unstructured day. No toys. No flat screens. No pre-programmed activities. We make it up as we go along from whatever comes along.

First stop, the back deck, upon which was nothing but a barbecue grill and two chairs. Seeing nothing to play with, Mya ran to the gate leading out the the yard. She rattled the gate indicating that she wanted out. I plopped in the chair and shook my head. “We’re staying right here.” Just then a school bus rolled by. “School bus,” I called. Seconds later, another followed close behind. “School bus,” I cried again, pointing. Mya smiled. The game was on.

First, Mya learned that the big yellow ‘car’ with many windows was not a ‘car,’ but a ‘school bus.’ Next she learned that, even before the bus appeared, she could identify it by the distinctive roar of the engine. This was all very exciting. When a jet passed overhead, the game reached a new level of complexity.

Meanwhile, amid the passing of bus and jetliner, with nothing else to do, Mya pushed the empty chair up against the railing--her aim, to climb into the chair and possibly escape over the railing. But alas, try as she might, her legs were too short. A push on the butt and up she wiggled. Triumph! She grinned in delight, as seen in the accompanying photo. Then came the challenge of wiggling off the chair without sustaining a bump on the head. It took several attempts to master the feat of dexterity and coordination. It isn’t easy pulling a short little leg from beneath a fat little tummy. Mya struggled with each descent, but eventually discovered that the trick was to get both knees under said fat little tummy before the downward slide. Thus passed the morning.

After lunch and a nap, we moved to the front porch where the most splendid entertainment awaited. There, in a large bowl of water (meant for the dog) swam one very frustrated but determined cricket. Mya looked at me and pointed to poor creature who paddled furiously from side to side in search of a foothold. “Gug,” Mya said, pointing to the insect. What to do? I sat down beside her and, together, we pondered the cricket’s predicament.

Empty the bowl. Fill the bowl. Empty the bowl. Fill the bowl. On and on throughout the afternoon. A school bus arrived. “School bus!” Students passed by the porch. “Gug,” said Mya pointing to the bowl. A few stopped to admire.

The story has a happy ending. With pebbles Mya gathered, we built an small island in the middle of the bowl. Little Miss Cricket seized her opportunity. Onto the island she swam and, with one quick hop, she jumped onto Mya’s arm to deliver a quick “thank you” before retreating to the bushes. Mya raised her hands, “Gug.” All gone.

Mommy and daddy returned from work--the end of our unstructured day.

The following morning when I peeked into Mya’s room, I saw not a baby, but a little girl sitting pensively in her crib.

The toddler--childhood’s adolescent.

Eat Pray Love

It’s a beautiful day are Sycamore Lodge. Actually, it has been a beautiful week. I drove down last Tuesday, set up, and since, have been hanging out. This trip has been pleasant, perhaps the most pleasant of all my visits here. The weather has been wonderful--warm but not hot, no storms, sunny, dry. The campground is relatively quiet, 30% occupancy weekdays; 60% over the weekend. With kids in school, the atmosphere is more relaxed.

I feel more relaxed as well, more confident with the truck and trailer. I walk a lot. I’ve met some nice people. This trip, more than others, I’ve enjoyed being on my own. I feel more comfortable; finally accustomed to the feeling of being ‘unattached.’ This is frightening in a way, but also exhilarating. Something every woman should experience this at least once in her life.

This leads me to the book/movie Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. Last week I went to the movie with friends. After, I asked each to describe the movie, in one word if possible. Di found the movie ‘trite.’ Gayle was more generous. She reckoned the film as least ‘entertaining.’ And me? I rate the movie, ‘wistfully wise.’

The movie reviewer in the Independent agreed with Di. While acknowledging the beautiful cinematography and Julia Roberts’ performance, he gave the movie just one star. The plot, he asserted, was basically silly. The reviewer can be excused. He is, after all, a guy.

I had a different take on the movie. Two scenes in the movie struck me. The first is the opening scene when Liz walks through her darkened house tormented, unable to sleep, and says (paraphrasing): I was fully involved in every step, every decision in the purchase of this house, yet I am miserable. It is this realization that sets her on her journey.

The same insight comes to her while sitting on the rooftop of the ashram in India. While struggling to forgive herself for leaving her husband, a memory of her wedding day surfaces. Again, she reflects: I planned every detail of this wedding. No one forced me to do anything. She then remembers their first couple’s dance as man and wife--not ‘their’ song, but one of his choosing. A sign, perhaps, that the marriage would be different than she imagined.

Then comes the point to ponder. Liz reflects that she had been with one man or another since she was 15. At no point in her adult life had she been on her own. How could she know what she wanted in life, in love, an ‘eternal’ companion, until she knew her own self, hence her own desire.

This reminds of a Susan, a woman I met in the summer of 1987 when I enrolled in my first graduate class. Across the room sat Susan, another new grad student. Right off, I didn’t like her. She wore low cut tops and sparkly sandals and, painted her toe-nails. That opinion changed as we found ourselves conversing across the room during discussions, each of us challenging or complementing something the other had said. Despite her sparkly sandals and painted toe nails, it was clear she had a sharp mind and the good grasp of literature. One day, we carried our discussion outside to the lawn outside OSH where we talked for two hours. Turns out we were both leaving bad marriages, both wondering what in the hell to do with our lives. From there, a friendship ensued.

Later, when a relationship with a younger man went bad, Susan decided to take a break from men, something she had never done. From age 12 to early her 40s, she bounced from one relationship to another. To change the pattern, a therapist advised her to make a radical change in her life, which she did. She moved into a tiny house, planted a garden, made new friends, took a part-time job, resumed writing. As far as possible, she tried to live “on her own,” just as Liz Gilbert did, albeit in less dramatic fashion. As she said, How can I know what I want in a man (or anything) until I know what I want?

Here, male members of the species have a huge advantage over their female counterparts. Day 1, boys pop out of the womb fully in touch with 1) their subjectivity (I’m the man here); and 2) their desire. This certainty comes early in life. For the female, it’s a much more difficult process. Some come to it sooner than others. Some never do.

Both the movie and book portray how difficult it is for women to know what they want. Young women are bombarded intensely early on with images of what the culture wants them to be, aka, what men want them to be. Few escape this bombardment. It took Liz Gilbert a year away, traveling the world to eat, pray, love to find what she wanted.

How many women can imagine, much less afford, such a journey? Not many. Perhaps the book will inspire new forms/methods for stepping aside to take a break. A wee moment to catch one’s breathe. A space of time in which, quietly, to stop, look, listen.

True Love and Home-grown Tomatoes

I recently finished a French language novel, Ombres du temps (Shadows of Time), winner of the Henri Deschamps Prize 2001 by Haitian-born author Geneviève Gaillard-Vanté.

The novel opens as the main character, Sophie de Lancelot, sits in a cafe in Madrid, Spain, reflecting back on a brief, week-long encounter 20 years earlier (all romance, no sex) with a dashing Spaniard, Alek Rivera. Each, unbeknownst the to other, had fallen in love; yet each realized that their lives were incompatible. She is a young, a student. He is immersed in his career as a world-traveling photojournalist. So, after an enchanting week together, they part, pledging to meet again at the same cafe 20 years hence.

That’s the set up. The novel then shifts to a description of Sophie’s childhood in Haiti, which portrays an idyllic life enjoyed by the ruling French aristocracy in their tropical island paradise. Sophie grows up in her grandparents mansion overlooking the sea outside Port-au-Prince. The scenes, incidents, the personages described paint a vivid picture of the lives of the wealthy French Haitians before Haiti’s descent into civil unrest and chaos.

Sophie’s life spirals downward in the wake of that descent. Returning to Haiti after studies in Europe, she marries a wealthy businessman. She has a child who dies in infancy. She and husband divorce. Her parents are murdered in the reign of terror against the French, forcing Sophie to flee Haiti.

Now 40 years old, divorced, orphaned, exiled from her native country, Sophie de Lancelot waits at the cafe in Madrid for Alek Rivera, the man who, for 20 years, has lived in the shadows of her memory. Sophie wants for several hours, then, as she is about to leave, Voila! Alek appears.

The story follows the inevitable, predictable path. Alek is a successful, world-famous photo-journalist. He married briefly but is now free. He has a beautiful home, stuffed with trophies from his travels abroad. We learn that he, like Sophie, has never forgotten their magical encounter; that his love has never died; that he is madly in love with her. He wants to marry her and live happily ever after.

It’s all perfect! A story book ending until he sets off for a few days (he begs Sophie to accompany him) to complete a project and Viola! he disappears. His boat sinks. Alek drowns in the sea.

The ending, though trite, got me to thinking about ‘true love,’ specifically that fate of, the durability of, the destiny of true love in this man’s world. The author works hard to convey the sense of this romantic, magical type of love that floats above the bump and grind of day-to-day life. This mystical attraction between man and woman transcends lower orders of sexual lust, rendering Sophie and Alek alternate versions of Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde--lovers whose love can not endure life as we know it. It is inevitable that Alek must drown in the sea. The couple cannot marry because marriage and true love cannot coexist, making death the only possible outcome. Alek dies that their love may live on where is belongs, i.e. in the ‘shadows of time.’

Reminds me of a song sung by David Henry: “Ain’t nothing in life better than true love and home grown tomatoes.” Both, it seems, are perishable commodities.

Bus's Movies

Upon learning of plans for Nanny’s 90th in June, I determined not to go. No way! I said. I want to stay put and settle into a routine of writing. I want no more distractions, no more interruptions in my life. Yet, in the end, I went.

The blame, if blame there be, was ‘Bus’s Movies,’ that comedy-of-errors, study-in-disaster video editing project turned spiritual experience which consumed me for three weeks. (Everyone called my dad ‘Bus,’ short for Buster, to distinguish him from his father of the same name.)

Once I got into the project I realized that the project wasn’t about Nana. It was about Bus and the family that he fathered. In working through the video clip, I came to appreciate the strength and goodness of that family: the work of each parent, their investment in the family; the fun, the many good times we had together. On July 26, Nanny turned 90, the first in her family to reach that milestone. On September 15 comes another milestone--the 30th anniversary of Bus’s death. This, too, was an event worth remembering.

Many of us knew Bus; but, most of the 60 plus grand and great-grands did not. In the editing, in the selection of music, I wanted to convey both the scenes of our childhood, and, a sense of the man behind the camera. Bus’s vision of the family. His values. His sense of humor; his practicality and good sense. His shaky camera hand and bad eyesight. Bus was a ‘family man.’ He cared our family; he cared for each of us. It was an immense loss to lose him at age 61.

The three-day celebration/family reunion held at the Homestead a was great success, thanks in large part to Marie’s planning and initiative. We left the schedule open, allowing people to come and go, to do what they liked. We asked only that they gather at 5:00 on Saturday, in their t-shirts, for pictures.

At 5:00, they came, 80 plus family members. After pictures came dinner and a short program. We sang “Happy Birthday” as Nanny opened presents. The first was a small box wrapped in brown paper. She help up the box and said, “I hope there’s a man inside.” Sure enough, there was. A wind-up muscle man in red briefs. The grandchildren thought this was very funny.

The slideshow was a big hit, mainly because it wasn’t too long, just 15 minutes. The show opens with pictures of Nanny’s childhood accompanied by a Schubert piano sonata. “That’s my mother playing,” Nanny declared. No one could convince her otherwise.

After a few closing remarks from Marie, Nanny responded. She thanked everyone for coming. “In my long, long life I have never had an evening like this,” she said. “Thanks so much for coming. I’ve enjoyed getting to know you all.” A snicker went across the room as people realized that she didn’t recognize that the faces before her were those of her family. But then, it didn’t really matter.

And so it was. Nanny’s 90th. A farewell to our mother, our father, our family. There will not be another event like it again. Yes, I’m glad to have been a part of it.

Nerodia sipedon--full body

A month since the last post. I’ll explain later.

First this, I was up early this morning, eager to get packed up and on the road to Sycamore Lodge. Yesterday, I packed the truck and the Argosy. This morning, I had only to think of clothing, food and ‘things-to-do” since there's nothing to do at Sycamore Lodge, one reason I like going there. It reminds me of a bumper sticker contest at IU. The winning entry: Welcome to Indiana: Bring something to do.

Packing for a journey is always stressful, especially when it involves a truck and 4,000 lb. trailer, and only me to do the packing, hitching and remembering of the hundreds of details that go into the simplest trip.

All went well. Then, while making one last run to the garbage can, I spied something unusual. Closer inspection revealed it was a snake, beside the shed enjoying the morning sun, the same snake that I uncovered last week under a tarp. I thought it was gone. Clearly, I was wrong.

Upon discovering the snake last week, I dropped a cinder block on its back, pinning the creature beneath it. Then, I called Gerry who arrived with a rifle, adding another layer of anxiety. What did I fear more, the rifle or the snake? A toss-up. Unable to get a clear shot, Gerry moved the cinder block, figuring the snake was either wounded or dead. Apparently, neither. Once freed from the block, the snake darted into the shed and slithered beneath shelves bearing bins of camping gear. No chance of getting it out with a rifle.

This sent me to the feed store for advice from the local girls who provide a wealth of advice on all sorts of issues related to living in the country--snakes being a topic of interest to everyone in the store, customer and clerk alike. First, they asked for a description of said snake. How long? Fat or skinny? What color? Round eyes or slant? Patterned or plain? Rattles on the tail?

Explaining that I didn’t get close enough to make a detailed examination of the serpent, (“Hell, no, honey! We didn’t say you was supposed to stick your nose right there in its little face!”) I did the best I could. It was a big snake. Three feet in length. Thick. Moved slowly. Brown with patterned back.

“Stop right there!” the clerk said. “Don’t matter what it is. If it’s brown, it’s dead. You got a rifle?”

The other clerk chimed in. “Yeah, but before she can shoot that snake, she’s gotta get it out of the shed.” This led to a discussion of various methods of evicting the snake. Their recommendation? Moth balls.

“You getcha some of them old fashioned moth balls, the little white ones like your grandmama used. That’ll git ‘im out. Snakes hate the smell of moth balls.” Every living thing hates the smell of moth balls.

Once the snake was out, surround the shed with powdered sulphur to make sure he don’t crawl back in. Don’t go near the shed without boots. Sweetie, if you ain’t got a rifle, get yourself a good, sharp-edged steel hoe.

All this seemed like good advice, but did leave me wondering: Can snakes smell?

Nevertheless, I did as they instructed. I pulled on a sturdy pair of boots, and, armed with the hoe, I went into the shed and tossed moth balls beneath the shelves and bins, then sealed up the doorway. The smell of moth balls emanating from the shed drew complaints from the neighbors, who, upon learning of their purpose, said no more.

Three days later, I donned the boots, grabbed the hoe and entered the shed. No sign of the snake. I moved bins; poked under shelves. No snake.

Kelah saw me and stopped by. From the safety of the truck, he called, “You find that snake?” I shook my head. “Nice talking to you,” he said as he drove off.

I figured the snake had gone. All weekend, I’ve been in and out the shed packing up gear for the trip to Sycamore Lodge. Then this morning, I see him, still as a stick, his little pointy head up off the ground, his chubby body wrapped around the garbage can. He stayed there long enough for me to pull on my boots and grab the hoe. I inched toward him, but the second I got within striking range, he slid backwards into the shed.

As far as I know, he’s still there. When I get back home, I’ll be headed to the feed store for more advice. I can hear it now: “Hey Margie! The lady with the snake is back. She’s got her boots on. Anybody make a hoe with a 22 ft. handle?”

Joy Luck

“Joy, Luck and Mom"

After shopping with Gayle, I headed to enjoy this perfect day. Walked to the mail box; stopped to visit Bev. Admired the radiance of the tulip tree. “It ain’t never been prettier than this year.” Ate supper of left-over burrito. Fiddled. Opened up the NetFlix envelope. Tonight’s feature, “The Joy Luck Club.” A blazing sychronicity after the Passover experience.

The subject of “The Joy Luck Club” is . . . what else? . . . mother-daughter relations.

Specifically, the mother-daughter bond. You’ve all read the novel by Amy Tan and undoubtedly seen the movie. To refresh your memories, the plot revolves around four women, born in China, who resettle in California, marry and raise families. Each has a daughter. The four form a club, the Joy Luck Club, which functions as a support group for the mothers, a sisterhood of four, that in turn supports a larger social, familial network of extended family and friends within the Chinese-American community. The core of the whole complex, the beating heart of the whole, is the bond between the four mothers and their daughters.

At first things do not go well for either mother or daughter. The bonds between are troubled, vexed. The narrative tells us why. Each of the four mothers has a story and each story has the same plot. Each has been separated from her mother; each flees China. Each brings to America weighty baggage bearing their guilt, fears, their feelings of ‘unworthiness,’ along their hopes and dreams for the future. This baggage of guilt and hope they thrust upon the slim backs of their daughters. They impress/press upon their daughters their hope of a better life--a major theme in the movie. It is not a choice. The daughter is obliged to be ‘obedient,’ to do what the mother asks, i.e. to fulfill hope, to live out the mother’s, and grandmothers’, unfulfilled dreams for their own lives. This, at the expense of the girl’s own hopes and dreams.

Mother comes first; daughter take the hind-side. This is all right and good, because, after all, mother knows best.

The movie portrays the effect of this ‘impressment of the mother’s hope’ upon the girls. Waverly is a genius at chess. She feels her power when she plays chess. She sees the whole board; she knows her opponent’s next move. No one can defeat her. Her mother intervenes and appropriates Waverly’s success, turning that toward her own need to feel worthy. As a result, Waverly loses her power; she stops playing chess. Another daughter, who is set up to be Waverly’s competitor, has the same experience, in this instance, with the piano. She goes to her recital in her best dress and plays like an angel until, mid-phrase, she looks into the audience and sees her mother. She stumbles, falters. She flays painfully through the piece and never plays again.

Guilt, self-doubt, a deep-seated sense of unworthiness along with impressed hope set mother upon mother, mother upon daughter, and daughter upon daughter. Relations are strained. Jealousy, competitiveness, disappointment inhibit/weaken/displace what should be the natural, nurturing bond between mothers and daughters, sisters and friends.

How do they escape?

As the mothers watch their daughters move into adulthood, they realize their mistake. This realization comes in part through reliving, retelling their stories of their childhood in China, their relations with their own mothers, and their experiences with men. The theme that emerges in all their stories is ‘unworthiness.’ As females within Chinese culture, they are always already unworthy. The plot turns as each mother realizes that the ‘feather,’ the symbol of hope that she carried from China and passed to her daughter is, in realty, unworthiness. By impressing her hope upon her daughter, each mother realizes that she had made her daughter feel unworthy of her own hopes and dreams.

Each daughter plays out this feeling of unworthiness in her adult relationships. Luckily (here comes luck), the mothers see their part in the wreckage. Working together, sharing stories, they change.

In one scene, the young piano player, now grown, confronts her mother. Or her mother confronts her. They argue. One thing leads to another. The issue of ‘unworthiness’ comes up. The daughter declares that she has always been a ‘disappointment’ to her mother: She is shy. She never married. She is not the musical prodigy her mother hoped she would be. She lacks ‘style.’

The mother, who will shortly die, and who abandoned twin baby girls in China, looks at her daughter, straight in the eye. “I see you,” she says. “I see you.” And what she sees, perhaps for the first time, is her daughter’s worth. In that moment of clarity, looking directly at the girl, the mother sees past her own hope and sees what the daughter is. She may not be a prodigy, she may not have style, but she has heart. A good heart. Like her famed crab dish, “best quality.”

This is the lynchpin that secures the complex of female relationships within the Joy Luck Club and extends outward to the larger community. The acknowledgement of worthiness sets things right within the mother-daughter bond. Or so Amy Tan would have us believe.

The Female Brain

A “must read” book for anyone interested in woman and gender is The Female Brain” by Louann Brizendine, M.D. (Broadway Books, 2006). The book explains a lot.

For openers, Louann provides technical data--Neurobiology 101--that the reader needs to navigate the book. These include a sketch of the female brain showing various sites, a list of neurohormones that act upon those sites, and phases of a female’s life.

The author then takes up the million-dollar question: What Makes Us Women? This, she answers in a single word: hormones. More than 99 percent of male and female genetic coding is exactly the same. What makes men and women different are hormones. End of discussion. You’all know that Dr. Mar is going to take issue with this, but for now, we’ll move on.

Although boys and girls are essentially the same in terms of intelligence, hormones act upon each in a different manner which sets the two upon separate developmental paths. For example, the achievement of boys and girls in math and science is dead even through grade school; then, in junior high and high school boys pull ahead. (Yes, Lawrence Summers was right!). This difference is due to hormones. It isn’t that boys get smarter and girls get dumber. Rather estrogen floods the female adolescent brain causing the girl to focus more on communication and emotions. Meanwhile boys are flooded with testosterone which makes them less communicative and obsessed with ‘scoring,’ both in sports and in the back seat of a car. Girls tend to choose careers that are communicative and interactive, while boys seek out more solitary work.

The chapters of the book take the reader through the various phases of the female’s life, beginning with the fetal brain. Sex differences both in humans and animals begin there. From birth, female infants are more interested in emotional expression than males. Girl babies study faces and read emotional response. Girls don’t like flat, expressionless faces because they can’t read a flat face.

Once I stood in a school hallway, watching as a class of fourth graders walked by--boys in one column, girls in another. Each girl studied me as she passed, her eyes scanning my face, asking: Who is she? Why is she here? One or two of the boys looked at me that way, but most gave me a quick glance before their eyes darted off to another attraction. Some didn’t look at all. Louann explains why.

Must-read chapters for the female gender describe the tidal wave of hormones that hit girls in adolescence and puberty (“The Teen Girl Brain”), sexual development (“Love and Trust”), sexual maturity and pregnancy (“Sex: The Brain below the Belt”) and on into motherhood (“The Mommy Brain”).

For instance, this tidbit: Between ages eight and fourteen, a girl’s estrogen level increases from ten to twenty times, while her testosterone level rises five times. Between the ages of nine and fifteen, a boy’s testosterone level increases twenty-five fold. No wonder boys are more ‘sexually driven.’ Fortunately or not, this disparity in sex drives continues through life. Not until age 80 or so will males and females reach parity in testosterone levels and sexual interest. Male testosterone levels fall from stratrospheric levels (900 at age 18) to the 300-600 range; while levels in post-menopausal women inch upward toward into the 100-200 range. Sorry girls. That’s as close as we get.

The final chapters of the book explain changes in the “mature” female brain. Short explanation: The effects of hormones subside because the hormone levels fade away. Replacement therapy? Louann takes on the issue. Other issues covered: “The Female Brain and Postpartum Depression” and “The Female Brain and Sexual Orientation.”

Overall, the book is fun and easy to read given the technical nature of the subject matter. More, The Female Brain explains a lot about myself and others of my gender that I wish I’d known a whole lot sooner.

The Mommy Brand

From the front page in the Sunday Styles section of the NY Times, Sunday, March 14, comes an article entitled, “Honey, Don’t Bother Mommy. I’m Too Busy Building My Brand.” The article describes a bloggy boot camp in Baltimore attended by 90 women, most in the 30s, who spent a weekend getting up their ‘mommy brands,’ i.e. the latest must-have skill set for the minivan crowd. This bloggy boot Camp, the first of a sold-out five-city tour, was organized by Tiffany Romero and Heather Blair, founders of the Secret Is in the Sauce, community of 5,000 female bloggers. The boot camp offers mommy bloggers a real-time opportunity for girly bonding (Hey, you guys!), networking, yes, and workshops designed to take their blogs up a notch in hopes of generating ad revenue and sponsorships.

Bloggers are told that their time, experience and their audience are worth something. But to capitalize upon these, to attract the attention of sponsors, they need to conduct themselves

as professionals, this as they sip mimosas from brightly colored plastic sippy cups. “Do I call you ‘Jill’ or ‘Scary Mommy?’

Indeed mommy blogs have become prime-time real estate among internet sites, a burgeoning industry generating incomes from loose change, ‘latte money,’ to thousands each month. In addition, many companies offer various perks and incentives to mommies: family vacations, road-trips, products, and birthday parties.

The commercial value of mommy blogs has transformed the genre. Five years ago, mommy blogs resembled glorified scrapbooks, a place where mommies could display their darlings, gossip, grip, exchange ideas. Now the leading sites market (and sell) their mommy ‘brands.’ It’s simple: Brands sell. To sell a site, you need a brand.

Some bloggers lament the passing of the pre-brand days when bloggers were simply mommies. Other stay-at-home moms see the new trend toward commercial branding as an opportunity for ad revenue and sponsorship; networking; and careers compatible with the ‘mommy’ lifestyle.

This brings up several questions, one being: What gets branded? The blog? The mommy? The child?

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about families, my own in particular. Specifically the bonds, or patterns, imprinted upon children at an early age and the effects of early patterning upon a child throughout its life.

I wonder about the children of mommy blogs. How are they branded? What patterns of self are being imprinted? What will be the effects upon them? Will commerce transform mommy blogger as it has transformed the blogger site? And her children? Her product brand? How will they be effected?

Dr. Mar's Daybook 2010

March 8 - March 14

“On the Times”

On the front page of Sunday’s New York Times (March 7, 2010) appears a picture of four lady Marines (Can a ‘lady’ be a Marine? Is that an oxymoron?) in fatigues, their hair pulled tight off their heads, listening intently to the do’s and don’ts of “cultural awareness:” Do show your ponytails. Do play with the children. Don’t let your interpreter hijack the conversation. Do gather as much information as you can. None are smiling. (Do Marines smile?) These four women, we are told, are members of the 40 member “female engagement team” headed to Afghanistan’s Helmand Province. Their mission: to win over rural Afghan women. Their significance: the changing face of the war; or, what the U.S. has learned after nine years in Afghanistan.

All 40 women volunteered for the team. Lady Marines, who make up 6% of the Corps, are not allowed to fight in combat units. The opportunity to leave desk jobs and kitchen duty and join male units in the field was “exciting” to the Lady M’s. While they won’t fight, Helmand Province is a dangerous place for anyone, particularly to those wearing an American uniform, so the Lady M’s will be carrying the smaller, lighter M-4 rifles rather than the standard M-16. Just in case.

Once they reach their targets, protocol requires that the Lady M’s met with the village elder and ask his permission to meet with the women, who are strictly off-limits to male Marines and are rarely even seen outside their home compounds. The teams will go two-by-two knocking on doors (sound familiar?) to gain entree in this hidden ‘no man’s land.’ Once inside, the Lady M’s are instructed to lay down their rifles, remove helmets and other battle gear, don the headscarf and sit down for tea with the women. They are to ask ‘basic’ questions: Who are the power brokers in the village? Where are the Taliban hiding? Who are making the bombs? The information gleened will be duly logged into a larger data base to be used by military intelligence. The Lady M’s are also instructed to gather information about the ‘social fabric’ of the village and problems the villagers might have. The military hopes this too will help win hearts and minds.

We are told that, for now, the Lady Marines remain apprehensive about the mission. The team commander, Captain Claire Henry, 27, said she’s worried about leading the team into harm’s way. But still, she hopes the team can win the trust of the women in Helmund Province. She is encouraged by one Afgan elder who invited the women into his home saying “Your men come to fight, but we know the women are here to help.”

I hope so. It seems a delicate mission--winning hearts and gathering intelligence. But I wonder, who is helping whom? And how?

“Neither Men Nor Mice”

From the Business Section comes advice on how women deal with the double standard on the job. You know the problem: If a guy barks out orders, he’s a leader, he’s in charge. If a women barks out orders, she’s a bitch. So, how do women stay strong and in control?

According to corporate trainer, Peggy Klaus, women have to realize that they work within a narrower band of acceptable behavior than men. Women can neither be a bull in a china shop nor a mouse in the corner. It’s not fair, says Klaus, but that’s the way it is.

A communication tune-up goes a long way to over-coming stereotypes in the workplace. The key is to communicate in ways that connect us to our better selves though a “compelling combination of warmth and strength.” This coupled with conveying messages in a specific and succinct way, using humor, direct eye contact and a firm voice. In other words, take the poor chap by hand, tell him how wonderful he is, acknowledge how hard he has worked, offer to help him with the assignment until he gets it right, remembering all the while how much he “hates to be wrong.”

In short, deliver the news so the guy “gets the message without wanting to get back at you.”

“Berkeley Place”

I watched the exciting conclusion to the BBC series, “Berkeley Place.” Set in 1902, the story revolves around three young nannies--Annie, Lydia and Mattie--who tend the children of three wealthy, aristocratic families, all neighbors on London’s prestigious Berkeley Place. The plot romps and rolls through a coronation, murder, tea parties, adultery, luncheons, intrigue, romance, seduction, a baby swoop, excursions, a shooting, a hanging and back-street brawls. As the nannies join the domestic circles of their respective households, they are inevitably drawn in. Not only are they drawn in, they come actors in their own right. All this leads Annie to exclaim in a moment of crisis: And I thought nothing was supposed to happen in the nursery!

In the end, things come right. At least, things come right as much as things can be made right. Master Hugh, the young lord of the manor who threatens Lydia, is put in his place. Mrs. Bronofski marches to the gallows to hang for a murder she did not commit--this to save Annie and her infant son. Mattie gets her fiance, Ned, cleared of murder charges only to see him march off to Africa with his regiment. Lydia engages the trust-worthy Mr. Fowler to learn her her “letters.”

If there’s a message to be gleaned from the series it is this: It’s up to the women of the household make things right. More to the point, it’s the lower class women, the servants who are more likely than their counterparts upstairs to keep the domestic sphere in order. This, because the upper class women enjoy the privileges that come from male rank. The higher the rank, the more the women act for, and in behalf of the system from which privilege accrues.

In a telling final scene, the aging nanny, Mrs. Collins falls into despair believing that her years of service in the household have come to naught--this when she discovers what a lout Master Hugh has become. Lydia revives her, reminds her of her position in the family, the senior woman, acting matriarch. Prompted by the younger woman, Nanny Collins marches downstairs and reprimands both the count and the countess, her blast falling hardest upon the count, whom she raised. Having been rebuked by a servant, the count could get angry. He could throw her out. Instead, he submits, and by doing so, acknowledges her power to make things right within the domestic sphere. In a gesture of submission, he bows his head and says in a sheepish, boyish voice, “Yes, Nanny.”

Nanny Collins’ aristocratic counterpart, a system enforcer who sells out her niece, Isabelle, allowing her to marry a man whom she knows to be a rake and a scoundrel, a bone fide ‘bounder,’ this she does to avoid a stain upon the family’s honor.

“Gynandromorphic”

This fresh in from NPR: An article in this month’s Nature magazine describes some “funny looking” chickens in Scotland that are changing ideas on sex. How’s that?

A professor in Glasgow received a call from an agricultural specialist who suggested that he, the professor, might want to come out and look at these funny looking chickens that appeared to be part male, part female. The professor wasn’t interest. Sexual anomalies in animals are not that unusual and all, easily explained. The specialist persisted and eventually the professor went round to have a look. Sure enough, he found that these funny looking chickens were part male and part female. But upon examination, he discovered that the cause of the anomaly was not what he expected.

Normally hormones determine sex. All fetuses, human included, come with gonads. A shot of testosterone sends male gonad reeling. It will become the testes. In the absence of the male hormone, the female gonad matures into the ripened ovary. In nearly all cases, sexual anomalies occur when one hormone or another goes array.

This not the case with the funny looking chickens. In this case, each chicken had two “normal” gonads, an ovary and a testes, each functioning properly. Thus, this was not the work of hormones.

What could it be? The only other determinate would be the cells themselves. Normally, hormones act upon the cells, telling them what to do or not do. In this case, it appears the cells decided their function. The determinant factor contained within the cell itself.

Scientists know that cells play a role, a minor role, in sex, hormones being by far the greater determinant. Scientists also know that the sex of many animal species can be determined by outside factors other an hormones. For example, the sex of sea turtles can be determined by the water temperature. These animals are labeled “gynandromorphic,” meaning an individual can become either male or female depending upon exterior circumstances. Another adaption of nature.

The funny looking chickens seem to be a different type of creature. The chickens are both female and male, their dual sex determined by their own cells. Gynandrochicks, if you will, displaying “gynandrochiphic” tendencies.

Whatever they are, these funny looking chickens from Scotland may cause scientists to revise their views of sex.

Solstice at Sycamore

Sunday, June 21, 2009  Solstice

(Road to Nowhere; Sycamore campsite)

The cool, moist air fled, replaced by oven-hot air from the west. Yesterday, the temperature hit 102 degrees. The heat finally drove me to the pool, along with the other hardy souls who stayed on. It was my first visit to the pool. A quick dip in the sun-heated water was refreshing; the side show of nearly naked campers cavorting in the water, strutting pool-side, was . . . (word search) memorable. I won’t recount the specifics, except to say the experience brought forth images of whales lolling playfully in the water prior to mating. 

My neighbor, Linda, sat down next to me, joined by her daughter, her husband and their 3 year-old son, Tyler, a wiry little tike. We watched as mom and dad heaved Tyler into the water. Tyler screamed in protest and came bounding out, mom and dad in hot pursuit. Dad grabbed him by the arm and hoisted the little fellow back to the pool. After more screams of protest, they gave up. Linda turned to me, needing to explain. “He’s autistic,” she said. “There ain’t much that pleases him.” 

Linda and her daughter discussed what to do with the boy while Tyler screamed. Suddenly, he reared up and head-banged his mother so hard that the impact nearly knocked her cold. The daughter wanted to leave, but Linda persevered, insisting that the couple stay for the evening barbecue. All evening, I could hear Tyler’s shrieks until, at last, they went on home to Ft. Bragg. Raising a kid like that would be tough. 

This afternoon, Linda and her live-in, Ronnie, (a nice fellow with the biggest belly I’ve ever seen) came over to say ‘good-bye’ before setting off. Before leaving, Ronnie brought me up to date on diesel engines. He said a Cummins diesel was the best. Ronnie was born in Wyoming, raised in North Carolina. He’d like to go back, he likes cold weather, but he reckons he’ll stay in North Carolina. “Got too much going on here.” 

Linda said they enjoyed sitting out evenings, listening to me fiddle. “You play real purrdy,” she said. “You play in an orchestra or something?”