Between Yesterday and Tomorrow

One of the advantages to living in Shorewood is our proximity to UWM. This is self-evident, so I won't try to elaborate! There's also a downside to living near the university: when UWM sprays, the whole neighborhood is forced to inhale!

Last Saturday the fumes were so strong I felt nauseous when I tried to bike past, yet people sat in the TruGreen grass right next to the little white signs. They clearly felt that the university sets an example and practices safe lawn care. I called John Krezoski in the Safety and Assurances Dept at UWM (414.229-5265) and left him a message expressing my disappointment.

I'd been told he's the person to call since this is a safety issue. It IS definitely a safety issue, especially when the fumes are sickening and the lawn care company is TruGreen. One place out of many to get additional info on TruGreen is on the Refuse To Use Chemlawn web site. 

The university is worried about people who don't like dandelions. This seems strange to me since Warren Porter, one of the country's top researchers into the effects of pesticides, works at UW-Madison. Here's a quote from his web site: "Subtle Biological Effects of Environmental Contaminants: We have serious concerns about children exposed to low level pesticide mixtures from lawns and in the food, water, and air that passes through their bodies.  Children do not have defensive enzymes at levels present in sexually mature adults. Our 2002 paper showed that a common lawn chemical pesticide mixture can induce abortions and resorptions of fetuses at very low parts per billion concentrations. The greatest effect was at the lowest dose.  Thanks to Richard Dwelle and Dr. James Jaeger, we have an extraordinarily sensitive new means of measuring mouse learning abilities at many levels.  We are currently conducting long term studies to explore the effects of subtle low level pesticide mixture exposures on learning abilities, immune function, hormone levels, and developmental disorders."

Perhaps UW-Milwaukee could use some of the research findings from UW-Madison to educate the public here in Milwaukee. 

Our brother-in-law, Marshall Goldman, may be known as a scholar, but we always think first of his humor! This Friday, May 16, 7 PM, you'll have a chance to hear him in person at Schwartz  Bookshops, 4093 N Oakland Avenue in Shorewood.

Here's an excerpt from Marvin Kalb's review of Marshall's latest book, “Petrostate: Putin, Power, and the New Russia”: "This may be Goldman's best book, and that's saying a lot. Focusing on Putin's Russia with a scholar's commitment to deep and meaningful research and a reporter's eye for detail and color, Goldman has explained why and how Russia has again emerged as a global power.." --Marvin Kalb, former Moscow bureau chief for CBS News.

I asked Marshall to send me something about his book to forward to our list, and here it is: Less than a decade ago,  Russia was effectively bankrupt.  Its banks were closed and its debt worthless.  Then in August 1999 Putin was appointed prime minister.  Now Russia has the world's third largest holding of reserves, its banks are profitable and its GDP has doubled.  No wonder the Russian people credit Putin with this turnaround.  Would Russia be any different today if someone else had been appointed instead?  The answer is yes and no.   Because Russia today is the world's largest producer of petroleum, no matter who would have been appointed prime minister, Russia today would be prosperous.  But Putin did make a difference. In what way?  What are the implications of all this for the European Union and the US and what difference will it make now that Medvedev is the new president?

Hope to see you Friday!
 

Blog titles or poem titles pop into my mind as I write; exhibit or performance titles are more of a challenge. Last Tuesday, Louisa Loveridge-Gallas, Bill Murtaugh, and I brainstormed, trying to find a title for our reading at Schwartz on Oakland on Wednesday, April 30th,  at 7 PM.

We looked for the threads connecting our varied poems: emotions, family, the earth. We eliminated titles like Blood Relations, Father Time and Mother Earth, and then Louisa muttered MUD. Great, I thought, that’s a good blood substitute, though I didn’t want Mud Relations, ah, Mud, Sweat, and Tears. That covers it all, nature, emotions, life. Flowers and frogs peep up from the mud, life creeps out of the mud, life is sweat, life is tears. Mud, Sweat, and Tears, an Evening With Three Poets, hah, then who’s who? Whose name is Mud? Perhaps we’re each all three, for we each wanted to write a book with that title. We’ll have to write it together.

In the meantime we’re reading together on Wednesday, April 30, 7 PM, Schwartz Book Store, 4093 N. Oakland Avenue.
 

Since I'm one of the original members of the Earth Poets, and our twentieth anniversary performances take place this Friday and Saturday, I thought I'd post our press release, and a poem.

Global warming was considered a fringe concept when Jeff Poniewaz founded the Earth Poets in 1988. Now it's 2008, and the fringe has become mainstream. "Green" is the latest buzz word, and it doesn't mean envy. It means harmony, living in harmony with nature. For their 20th Anniversary Performances, four of the original poets, Jeff Poniewaz, Louisa Loveridge-Gallas, Suzanne Rosenblatt, and Harvey Taylor, and the two musician members of the group, Jahmes Finlayson and Holly Haebig, will continue to transform inconvenient truths into conscientious action. The performances will also feature a special guest, activist and poet James Godsil. Scientists say it's not yet too late, so the Earth Poets and Musicians will contemplate how we can slow down the rush towards global warmth!

FRIDAY, APRIL 18,  2008
7 P.M. Interactive Poetry and Music for the Whole Family
8 PM Earth Poets and Musicians
Jahmes Finlayson, Louisa Loveridge-Gallas, Holly Haebig, Jeff Poniewaz, Suzanne Rosenblatt,
Harvey Taylor, and SPECIAL GUEST: James Godsil
URBAN ECOLOGY CENTER
1500 E. Park Place
$5.00 Per Person, $10.00 Per Family, UEC Members Free

SATURDAY, APRIL 19, 2008, 8 P.M.
Jahmes Finlayson, Louisa Loveridge-Gallas, Holly Haebig, Jeff Poniewaz, Suzanne Rosenblatt, Harvey Taylor, and SPECIAL GUEST: James Godsil
THE COFFEE HOUSE
631 N. 19th Street (Just South of Wisconsin Ave)
Donation: $5.00

MUCH OBLIGED
By Suzanne Rosenblatt

What's an artist to do?
He paints, dances, writes,
Maybe he recites,
Composes a sonata, deftly draws a flower
As the mad world succumbs_   
To those greedy for power
He may struggle to get others   
To listen or look
As he tries to make a living   
With his painting, song, or book
Yet he loves what he does   
In his cranny or nook

Should he reimburse the planet for his talents
And work to put the earth back into balance?
Pay rent for his creative space
By trying to make the world a better place?
I'd say yes, we have to do what we can
Have to set up our personal
Repayment plan
 

I feel as if our kids grew up in an art warehouse, walls covered with, and racks filled with, paintings and drawings, sculpture on every table and shelf, and yet all five of us were producing more. And I'm thankful the tradition continues, with spouses and grandchildren thrown into the mix. Recently Eli has been on a painting roll. You might sense from his work that he once owned a bar (in Taipei) and that he has a long-standing relationship with pool halls, as he takes the inhabitants of the night and brings them back to life in his unique style. You can also sense that painting is a natural part of his being. From March 8 to May 30, he has a show at Gallery H2O, 221 N. Water St., Milwaukee. The hours are a little unusual, Mon-Fri, 7:30 AM-4:00 PM, but he'll have a reception on Gallery Night, Friday, April 18th, 6 PM-10 PM, and the gallery will also be open Saturday, April 19th, 11 AM-2 PM. You can see some of his work on his home page.
 

If the sixth sense is intuition, then the seventh must be the sense of adventure. After all, everything we do is one, if we choose to look at it that way. When I walk out of our front door, and I do it frequently, I don’t know what will happen next, even whether or not I’ll ever walk back through it again!

Well, that’s the way I was feeling most of this winter, due to the ice crisis. I walked several miles a day despite the fact that I was terrified of falling. Last week I thought it was spring and decided not to dwell on fallen fellow Midwesterners, but on the residents, incidents, surprises, I come upon as I meander, or rush (more likely rush), through the day.

When I started to blog in June, 2006, I figured I’d write about the many interesting people I run into on a daily basis, get the character of Shorewood by showing the characters in Shorewood. After all, that is an adventure! Then I modified the concept, not wanting to name names, and blogged more about incidents than about particular people. Last year I wrote LOCKED OUT AND LOCKED IN  when I found one of my grandsons locked out of his house early in the morning and later that same day had to call 911 for a lady who’d been trapped in her garage for an hour and a half. And I blogged about the speeding car that killed a dog last month, INCIDENT AT AN INTERSECTION. 

Several days after I posted that blog, someone asked me, as I walked along Maryland Avenue, “Are you the lady who wrote the article about the dog? I had the same thing happen to me. I saw a car hit a dog and speed away, except the dog was a puppy, and the dog-walker was a little boy!”

This past January as I walked along Oakland, a woman standing alone across the street shouted to no one in particular, “Doesn’t anyone have a cell phone?” Why did she want one? Then I saw a man peering under his car’s hood, smoke billowing into his face. He slammed the hood closed, screamed a stream of unbloggable words, and the woman yelled, “Someone call 911!” I did. And I moved as far as possible from that car. About thirty years ago, Connie Wypp, one of Adolph’s art students at UWM, parked her VW Beetle across the street from our house in Bill Nichols’ driveway, leapt out of the car, and within seconds the car was in flames.

That didn’t happen this time. Even before my 911 call went through, the rescue squad arrived. Two brave men lifted the hood and put out the fire, while the combustible VW Beetle burned in my mind.

Yesterday it occurred to me as I passed familiar faces along Oakland Avenue, that I've lived in Shorewood almost 39 years and have probably seen most of these people many, many times, and even if I've never had a conversation with someone, he or she seems familiar. Curious thought. But that's my point. Usually it’s the residents, not the incidents, it’s walking everywhere, or biking, being part of the environment and not enclosed in a car, interacting with whatever's happening, that makes each day an adventure.
 

It’s hard to believe only a week ago we were still in winter’s frozen thrall, praying not to fall. That”s when I heard the rumor: a shipment of salt had finally arrived at Walgreens! I called to be sure it was true, and to check the weight, under ten pounds, light enough to carry home. “Great! I’ll be right over!”

I first stopped at Pick ‘N Save, bought a load of groceries for my backpack, then walked to Walgreens and found the salt. Except it wasn’t salt. It was another one of those chemical concoctions that have to be kept out of reach of children. I didn’t want it for clearing off my roof! So that’s what people use on their walks, I thought, and the salespeople don’t seem to notice it’s not even salt.

I continued on to Sendiks, and they actually had salt, real salt, rock salt, no warnings about kids, in 25-pound bags. Hmmm, and I already had ten pounds of groceries on my back. Now or never, I told myself. If I wait, it may be gone. Well, 25 plus 10 equals 35, and I lift 40 pounds on the shoulder press. But my back’s supported on the machines, so I’m not carrying the weights, and certainly not schlepping them for more than a half mile. I bought the bag anyway and started out. Dead weight, this is dead weight, when will I learn my limits? I plunked the dead weight onto the first bus stop bench I came to, no bus home from here. Finally I picked the salt sack up and placed it belly high, as if I were pregnant. Didn’t help. I kept an eye out for friends in cars, seriously considered stopping at someone’s house, as I navigated the icy walks.

I didn’t have to carry it to term! About two-thirds of the way home, Thalia was pulling into her driveway. “Hi, would you mind giving my bag of salt a ride to my house?” I asked. “Sure I’ll do it,” she replied, “Would you like to come with it?”

Okay, I won’t do that again. I’ll take a stroller out of the garage next time I need salt.


 

“There’s a time for streetwalking.” I actually said that to strangers passing in the road, and they smiled. Well, streetwalking is keeping me upright. The weather still swings, snow, then a melt, frigid, then ice, snow, melt, frigid, ice, I should write a tune for my disenchanted chant. The cleanest walks become the most treacherous as they layer themselves with black ice, and only those with a layer of snow are safe for me to use.

Every store was out of street salt the other day, several other days in fact. And table salt didn’t do the trick, the grain’s too fine. I had wanted to buy some and walk through ShoreWood, like Hansel and Gretel, keeping track of my tracks as I created traction. Until now I’ve always used sand, feels like it’s harmless if it ends up on the shoreline. And I’m not anxious to live near a great salt lake.

If there’s too much traffic, I do use sidewalks, when I can find a way to reach them. Yesterday iciness on sidewalks surprised me several times, but I managed to save myself from hitting bottom.

Later: I went back to Pick ‘n Save. They finally had salt in 20-pound bags. Then I saw it was four-ingredient salt, sodium chloride the last ingredient, and I wondered about the safety of the other three. I didn’t have to wonder long. If I have to keep it out of reach of children, how can I put it on the sidewalk? Not only that, little kids think snow looks like ice cream, and they love to lick. The easiest way to stop my younger grandkids is to remind them about what dogs do in snow.
 

The older I get, the smaller my artwork. Some reasons: I can carry a tiny drawing pad without needing a big purse.  I can capture fleeting passers-by more quickly and unobtrusively. Anyway, less is often more. Here's another advantage: In the Roberta Avonn Fiskum Art Gallery at UW-Whitewater I can fit several small works into my quarter of the "Phenomenal Women" show. The opening reception is Wednesday, February 27, 4:30-6:00. Marie Mellott and I will perform at 5:00, "Three Ladies in Their Eighties" plus some of our poems. Marie will become her 101-year-old grandmother, I'll do my global warming poem, which you can see on YouTube  if you won't be in the Whitewater area.

MORE DETAILS: The other three artists are Anne Kingsbury of Woodland Pattern, Flora Menager, and Caitlin Carroll.
The Roberta Avonn Fiskum Art Gallery is a newly-constructed gallery in the University Center Building in the heart of the UW-Whitewater campus. If you want more precise directions, please call Beth Wiza at 262-210-9491.

Today is Sunday, and the name’s deceiving, should be called ice day, or ice stay. The temperature’s in the mid-30’s, and that, too, is deceiving, unless you like puddles with hidden layers of ice. They’ll turn solid tomorrow. Weird weather, unexpected swings of Mother Earth’s moods. It’s all part of global warming, so we’d better get accustomed to this bipolar world.

The Fitness Center was in my plans for today, but I was afraid to walk out the door, imagined myself lying unnoticed on the steps. By 2 PM I decided to risk it, sprinkled our last grains of sand on the path and sidewalk. We’re running out, and neither of us drive, a problem if we want to get more. After the gym I’d see if there’s salt at Walgreens, but is that environmentally sound?

I ventured forth, and made it, barely, to the corner of Maryland and Olive, safer to walk in the street. So I did, right down the middle of Olive. It wasn’t too bad at first, then got worse, all ice. Made it to Murray, and that street, too, was clearer than the sidewalks, I followed the visible pavement, moved near the curb and watched if I heard a car coming up behind me. When I was about to pass Wood, I heard a motor, turned around, police, the car slowed almost to a stop. Was he going to give me a ticket? Or did he think I needed help. Whew, he moved on.

The Fitness Center had already disappeared from my agenda. I’d better go directly to Walgreens, and then back home. I crossed Murray to talk to a friend walking her dog on Wood.

“Your block’s well-shoveled as usual,” I said.
“Yes,” she replied, “That policeman actually considered giving you a ticket for walking in the street, I saw his mind working, but they don’t give people tickets for not shoveling walks. If our block can do it, why can’t everyone?” I looked down the block at two young men in tee-shirts breaking up residual ice, didn’t think a 70-year-old woman could follow suit. “I called the village,” she continued, “And the manager told me if they give out tickets, he gets a lot of angry phone calls.” I was thinking if they give out tickets, they’d have to give some to themselves. Atwater School’s sidewalk on Maryland and the one on Oakland near the bus stop in front of Shorewood High, a route for lots of old people, are often two of the most dangerous walks in the village. “Well,” she added, “You caught me on a rampage. I have to walk my dog, and I don’t want to break an arm or leg.”

A few minutes later as I walked down Wood, so clear of snow and ice, I thought that if I lived on Wood and had to walk my dog, I’d simply stay on the block, walk back and forth between Murray and Oakland. Four round trips would add up to more than a mile.

The west side of Oakland was clear, walking easy, Walgreens didn’t seem far enough to substitute for the Fitness Center. I continued, noticed several bags of salt in Sendiks’ window, went in and tried to lift one, couldn’t budge it.

At Walgreens the salt was sold out. What else could I use? Kitty litter was probably an invitation to cats to litter. Ah, potting soil was on sale! Perfect. Maybe. And if any remains on my walk after this siege of snow and ice, I can sweep it into my garden.
 

The Oakland Café, my hangout for writing and drawing in the early 90’s, affected my life in many ways. I’ll mention just one at this moment: THREE LADIES IN THEIR EIGHTIES, a series of more than one hundred drawings I did there. I have a few of the drawings on our web site, and I look back at those ladies with affection. They were not living in the same world they grew up in, just as I, now seventy, am living in a totally changed world.

It’s sixteen years later now, the Oakland Café’s no longer there, and I doubt the three ladies are still around, doubt I’ll get to draw THREE LADIES IN THEIR HUNDREDS. But perhaps the ladies do live on through their words. And Marie Mellott and I will be performing some of their conversations at a Valentine's Day Performance in conjunction with The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly Show at Walkers Point Center for the Arts. Here’s rthe beginning of the conversations:

WELCOME TO OLD AGE RADIO, TONIGHT PRESENTING TWO LADIES IN THEIR EIGHTIES, THIRD ONE NOT THERE

The time was the early 90's, the place was the Oakland Cafe , and the snoop, well, I was the snoop. I sat as close as possible to Prudence, Gladys, and Madge, and took dictation. They never seemed to notice me drawing them, never knew I used their conversations to form their faces. Eventually Madge came less and less often. She was, however, always there in spirit.

Prudence:      I had a very lovely childhood. We had electricity, we had the first telephone in the neighborhood, my father was always ahead of everybody...
Gladys:    you were very lucky.
Prudence:    Well, you can thank the lord for your two loving daughters. I think it must be wonderful for a mother to have  daughters she can be with. Of course my mother had my father, and that was the most important thing in her life. My brother was very pretty when he was young, very pretty, but he didn’t grow up to be so attractive... Most mothers talk about their children, my mother didn’t. One of the reasons, I figured out, was because my brother was always at the bottom of the class. I was on the top, he was on the bottom. If she talked about me, she’d have to talk about him. I don’t know where he got that trait of a lazy mind. Both of my parents were intelligent...  And my mother always condoned his laziness. He just lived at home all his life.
Gladys:    Free of charge?
Prudence:   Oh yes. ...my brother never even gave us gifts..but we continued to give him presents...then once I looked at him and said, I didn’t buy you anything because I know you don’t believe in giving gifts...

Performance details:
POETRY, CHOCOLATE, AND WINE, Organized by ABEA
Walker's Point Center for the Arts,  911 W. National Ave. Milwaukee, WI 53204
Adults Only: Thursday, February 14, 7-9:30 PM
FEATURED PERFORMERS: Tanya Cromarte-Twaddle, Bobby Drake, Eric Jefferson, Marie Mellott, Carmen Murgia, and Suzanne Rosenblatt. Patrick Turner will play Blues Guitar
OPEN MIC
 

Friday morning, snow deep, plowing just begun, Adolph and I are on the number 15, headed to the south side to see our chiropractor. Though I figured the bus would be late, we slogged to the stop in front of Pick ‘N Save early. Good move, the bus arrived on the dot. The driver tooted when he saw everyone waiting. “The bus is here!” he exclaimed as we boarded. “Amazing,” I said, “So long as you’re taking us to Oklahoma and Kinnickinnic.” He helped me slide a crumpled dollar bill into the machine, cheerily greeted everyone who got on, “Be careful, take your time.” He sets the tone, a bright bus bubble floating through Shorewood.

We’re passing Harry’s Bar and Grill now, where the Oakland Café once was. For years at 6:15 A.M. I’d swim forty lengths at the Shorewood Pool, bike to the Oakland on my single speed, coast past drivers digging their cars out of snow drifts on days like today, then nurse my coffee, nibble a bran muffin, and write or draw.

The bus TV cuts into my memories, “If you’ve been exposed to toxic chemicals at work or in your home and now have acute myeloid leukemia, call...” “Lawn pesticides,” I say to Adolph, “double your chance of getting leukemia, but at least you won’t have dandelions.” Maybe I’m wrong, I think it’s worse. I’ve read that kids are about seven times more likely to get childhood leukemia if their parents use lawn chemicals.

Here’s Park Place, the stop for the Urban Ecology Center, North Avenue, for Beans and Barley or the Oriental Theater, coming to Brady Street, now Water Street and Danceworks, we saw a great performance there on Sunday, the Marcus Center, we heard Mozart’s clarinet concerto there last Friday, Mason Street, we got off there earlier this month to see the Bellows show at the Art Museum.

“You know, one of these days I think I’ll take this bus all the way to the end,” a man is saying to the bus driver.
“You’ll kill an hour,” the driver replies.
“But there’s a whole ‘nother city.”
“I’ll save you a seat.”

Wisconsin Avenue, and the driver says goodbye to every departing passenger, “Have a nice one,” “Have a good day,” “Have a good weekend,” “See you at the sled hill.” A new passel of passengers boards. A small woman with cell phone, walkman, and a case full of CD’s, sits next to me, peers at my writing, and asks, “Shorthand?” “Yes,” I reply, my own invented shorthand, my own symbols. Now she’s on her cell phone, speaking the fastest Italian I‘ve ever heard, I can’t understand a word she’s saying, so why am I sure it’s Italian? Uh oh, someone went past his stop, has to walk back a few blocks.

As we pass Next Act Theater, the driver  turns to me, “Where did you say you want to get off?”
“Oklahoma,” I tell him, that whole ‘nother city.
 

Sometimes we hate to say goodnight after French Table. We stand around chatting in front of Schwartz on Oakland at closing time. That’s what we were doing a few nights ago. Then brakes screeched, everyone gasped, I spun around in time to see the back of a car speeding down Jarvis, bouncing at every bump. It looked like a police chase, without the police.

“What happened?” I asked. It was dark across the street. All I could see were shadowy figures under the dim streetlight, and I could hear a yelping dog. “That car hit a dog,” Anne, who had younger eyes, said, “And it’s dying.” How could she see it was dying when I couldn’t see it at all?

A few minutes later I crossed over, checking traffic carefully. Jean-M was on his cell, talking with the police. Two women, each cuddling a small dog in her arms, stood crying. “Which dog was hit?” I asked Keith, who had run across immediately. He pointed to a third dog lying dead at one woman’s feet. “I checked, couldn’t feel any pulse,” he told me, “They’re taking him to the animal hospital anyway.”

About 27 years ago our son Joshua brought Happy to the animal hospital, put him on the table, and the vet exclaimed, “I can’t do anything for that dog, he’s dead,” with a tone that said, why are you bothering me with this? Perhaps he didn’t realize that pets are family members, and we don’t want to let go. Perhaps the speeding driver didn’t realize that either. Or perhaps he sped up when he heard the thud, to make sure he’d never know whether he’d hit man or beast. Or perhaps he didn’t know he’d hit anything, just another bump in the road.
 

Tonight’s Gallery Night, and we’re always in the same quandary: We want to stay at our own gallery, yet want to go to all the other exhibits. This evening Adolph and I will stay at Rosenblatt Gallery, 181 N. Broadway, with our work and with Davey Noble's work, which is in our north gallery. Here's his press release: “Hot on the heels of the world premier of the 'Super Noble Brothers' film release, Milwaukee artist DAVEY NOBLE is for the first time in 5 years unveiling some of his most enigmatic work for the eyes of his home city on Gallery Night, January 18, 2008 at the Rosenblatt Gallery in the Historic Third Ward. DAVEY, the youngest of the three Noble brothers, is known first for his incredible take on the human form and his uniquely individual persuasion of color and line. He is also known for his one-of-a-kind style and attitude that is classically Milwaukee. The public is warmly invited to come and view the most recent creations from one of this city's most up-and-coming artists, and to enjoy the company of a genuinely noble Milwaukeean.”

So we'll unfortunately miss the opening of The Good, the Bad and the Ugly: Relationships and Love, a show at Walker's Point Center for the Art, 911 W. National Ave, that includes work by Adolph, our son Eli, and me. There's a condensed version of the show on blogspot.
 

Last Monday the grass was green where snow had melted, and the streets looked clear, except for the cloud of fog that hugged the East Side. I figured I should bike to Trader Joe’s while the snow and ice were water. As I put on my helmet, I had to admit I was afraid, of ice patches, of drivers on cell phones, of predicted thunder storms, of being too old to bike.

I pedaled along Maryland Avenue, avoided a friend who stepped off the curb without looking, too busy listening to his iPod, he said. Despite my loud pink jacket, I felt invisible, mists never more than a few feet away. The fog wasn’t pea soup, wrong color, more like vichyssoise without the leeks. I started to think of new blogs, wished I had a little tape recorder. Passers-by would think I’m on my cell phone. I smiled, relaxed, soon was coasting down Hampton, and I knew why I was biking. It’s more than a matter of getting to Trader Joe’s; it’s being out in the world, not enclosed, cruising through outdoor air.

I walked down the aisle, skipped the bulky produce, zeroed in on cereal, tofu, polenta, thinking that’s what’s cheap at Trader Joe’s, most health food I get at Outpost, better to shop there, shop  local, calculating what would fit on my bike. Then a voice said, “Suzanne! How did you get here?”
“Oh, Ruth, hi! I biked.” “You certainly can’t carry everything on your bike. You’ll have to let me drive it back for you.”

I mention this not because Ruth drove my groceries home for me, though she did, but because she told me about her recent mammogram at Bayshore. She had asked her technician about the incidence of breast cancer in the area. The technician replied that it’s unusually high on the North Shore. I’ve heard that several times recently, haven’t read it anywhere.

The following day at the Fitness Center a friend told me that some of the young women who live near her have breast cancer, and one died, leaving behind two young children. Then she added, “So many of my neighbors use pesticides, I’m thinking of moving out of Shorewood.”

I guess some people are dying to have no dandelions.
 

After our last Second Sunday Soup and Salad Salon, I sat down immediately to write, and that’s as far as I got. I didn’t have the time to strike while the mind was hot. Too bad. Anyway, the subject was forgiveness, and most people prefer not to think about that.

That salon was two months ago. Maybe it’s good to see what remains of the discussion as time passes. Three comments come to mind. For Elsa the main consideration in forgiveness is whether or not she can be absolutely sure she wouldn’t have done the same thing in identical circumstances. I think one of the things wrong in our society is that too many people are so self-involved that empathy has disappeared. If we placed ourselves in others’ shoes, tried to figure out why our enemies act the way they do, we might be able to figure out what to do about it.

Empathy with the enemy may be a little much to ask of most people. Yet it brings me to the other two comments. Rose told about a friend who had been married to a brilliant young scientist working on his PHD. When he was walking home from the lab late one night, a gang of boys attacked and killed him. The widow forgave her husbands’ murderers and saw to their education, did everything she could to make sure that they would never kill again. Yvette told of listening sessions in which a group of women described how abuse had affected their lives. The abusers sat in the same room.

Forgiveness doesn’t absolve the perpetrator of responsibility. It does, however, allow us to avoid being devoured by anger, hate, and greed, to concentrate on common ground and finding solutions.

Rose and Yvette sent me Emails today elaborating on their comments. Before I post them, I’ll post the introduction our facilitator, Carolyn, sent everyone ahead of time:
“In this contentious and dangerous world, do we need a dose of forgiveness, empathy and civility?  Many religions offer forgiveness as an answer to our problems.  Why is forgiveness so difficult?  Do we fear that if we forgive an enemy we are selling out, showing weakness or giving in?  Desmond Tutu says that we should pray to forgive our enemies, (and if that does not work,) pray to want to forgive our enemies, (and if that does not work,) pray to want to want ... .   I recently saw a program NOW where evangelical Christians traveled to Alaska with scientists.  Ordinarily they are on opposite sides of many issues, but they decided to try to listen to and understand each other at least on one issue, the environment and global warming.  It worked.  They were forgiving, empathetic and civil.  They were able to find common ground.  Could we use this example in other situations?  On the other hand, are there times when we need to be stubborn?”

ROSE’S MESSAGE: This is such an important subject both in interpersonal and international relations.

I think the situation with the scientist was that the widow determined that the attack was a random one and was not directed at her husband particularly and so she was able to deal with it on the level that these were troubled youth who needed to find a better way to get their kicks!

One principle that I think is important is that the person to be forgiven needs to identify what the offense was and ask for forgiveness of the offended person.  In my personal experience, I think this helps everyone not only the two involved but also those in the periphery who are affected by the conflict.

I am not sure if this was the way they handled it in South Africa during the Truth and Reconciliation Commissions.  Can someone enlighten me? Also, in Chile, the people who lost their loved ones have said to their offenders. "You must live with your shame.  We can hold our heads up high and honor those we loved. "

YVETTE’S MESSAGE: As you know, forgiveness is a journey and it has been while since I felt compelled to touch this tender place.  I have been fortunate to participate in the community restorative justice program as it was offered through the Alma Center (a nonprofit organization dedicated to ending violence and abuse in intimate relationships, families and the community)  The Alma Center has a unique focus of peace education for abusive men.
 
My participation in restorative justice work, has altered and healed my soul each time, and in different ways.  Allow me to explain:
 
The Format:
 
A number of people are gathered from the community, certain people were invited because of their unique life experience.  We all sat in a large circle, men who've been convicted of domestic violence and suffered from abuse, judges, former police officers, college students, social workers, counselors, mothers, sons, fathers and daughters.  All were there for a reason.  As we all sat facing each other, most of us strangers, we were guided by our facilitator to briefly introduce ourselves and how we came (were invited) to this circle.
 
It is a three day format.  Each participant agreed to be present for 2 1/2 hours on Friday evening, 4 hours on Saturday morning, and 2 1/2 hours on Tuesday evening.
The facilitator explained that the circle we sit in and the format that we are about to follow is drawn from the Native American traditions.  We will each have an opportunity to speak while others listen.  Then she shows us a small hand held item and explains that this will be our 'talking stick'.  The person who has it is free to speak and share his or her thoughts.  Others just listen, not to comment or respond, just listen.  When that person is finished, he passes the talking stick to his neighbor, who then may share his thoughts.  Anyone who chooses not to speak is free to pass the talking stick to his neighbor.  Silence is as acceptable as speaking.
 
The Topic:
 
The topic is violence. The question we are given to respond to is, how has violence touched your life.
 
 
The Sharing:
 
I’m grateful to be sitting about 12 people away from the talking stick. I can listen and let the memories surface without judgment. I relax and listen. I am deeply moved by each persons sharing. There is even a gift in the silence. I find that the stories start deep and get deeper.
 
More to come...

MY MESSAGE: When Yvette sends me more, I’ll definitely post it!
 

When I got back from New York last week, I found a message in my inbox that made me muse on what qualities make a village a great place to live, at least for me. There’s location, of course: trees, flowers, gardens, parks, maybe even a lake or river, breathable air, livable homes, convenient shopping, nearby cultural events. Walkability. Bike-ability. Bus-ability.

Then there’s the people factor: diversity in every sense, ethnic, racial, economic, religious, age, a community of people who care about the arts, education, social justice, the environment, of people who are informed. I could continue, but I want to return to the inbox message, which concerned the possible development by Sunrise Senior Living of land along the river. So I googled Sunrise Senior Living and found articles in The New York Times, The Business Journal, and The Washington Post, just for starters.

After I wrote this, I saw that Dave Tatarowics had already posted the same message, from Tim Vargo, on December 17. But in case you haven’t read it, I’ll repost it so you can read it now and ask yourself: Is this really where we want to go? Will this improve the quality of life here? Will it help Shorewood become a prototype of a green community?

Dear Shorewood friends,
Some of you may have heard about a proposal to tear down the Riverbrook Restaurant and the Sherburn place apartments (where I live) to put in a senior living center.
 
As a resident of the apartments and a professional in the field of research and environmental education,  I find SO MANY problems with the development from just about every angle.
1) The developers are not considering any green design.  They are tearing down perfectly good buildings and bringing in all new materials.
2) The developer when asked about green building showed no interest and gave misinformation to the zoning committee. Specifically, she said LEED Certification, (the recognized standard for measuring building sustainability) meant nothing more than slapping a green roof on the building.
3) Green design is not only environmentally friendly, but it is functional and considers the use of the building and the residents that live there.
 4 ) The developer is advertising river views from the upper floors but assured me through some magic of landscaping that you won't see the building from the river
 5 ) It's a HUGE 4-story, cookie-cutter box  building from a national chain of senior living centers in which the owners are facing lawsuits for fraud and neglect  (Sunrise Senior Living) .   This is so against what I feel are the strengths of Shorewood - walkable neighborhoods with locally owned businesses.  If senior living is truly needed, it would be easier to swallow this change if this were the future of sustainable design in senior living, designed by Kubala-Washatko, something Shorewood could be proud of.  This is a valuable piece of real estate, and the change they create will be around for a long time.  (And I think the building is hideous)
 
6) We will lose one of the only pockets of diversity in Shorewood where there is relatively affordable living (Sherburn Apartments) and sit-down dining (Riverbrook).  I ate brunch at the Riverbrook on Saturday and was floored by how packed the place was and by the degree of diversity I observed.
 
7) There are currently 50 people at Sherburn apartments, including families, some elderly, and people that have lived there almost thirty years.  At any time these people could get 30 days notice to leave according to the owner who has had terrible communication (virtually none) with the residents or even the building manager.
 
The truth is, for me this will be an inconvenience - I've moved around a lot.  For others this will be a life upheaval.
 
The project is still in its preliminary stages, but if nothing is done, it will undoubtedly move forward.  Please forward this to friends or anyone else who you feel may have an interest in this project.  These are elected officials making this decision and it's up to us to make sure they represent their constituents over an outside developer.
Thank you for your support!
Tim Vargo

 

"He’s a little crazy right now. He goes to Rhode Island School of Design, and his final project was to design a building. What architects take years to do, he has to do in a month." That’s what I like about other people's cell phones, if the talker isn’t driving or shouting. I get glimpses into the worlds of strangers.

The young man I’m overhearing at the moment is seated directly behind us in the train between Boston and New York.

"Morocco, yeah, it’s kind of been popping up…yeah, it sounds really good…, yeah…, yeah, huh! I guess India’s not much different. It sounds as if the cities are intense, and that’s where the tourism is… uh huh…."

India does not happen to be on my agenda. There too many places I want to return to, Taiwan, Israel, Mexico, rather than take on somewhere new. Maybe I’m getting too old, though Adolph’s sister, Merle, whom we just visited, is almost seven years older than I am and is going to Israel this month, next month to India, later on leading, with her husband, Marshall, a trip along the Silk Route.

"It’s good to talk to you again. I love you. Give my love to Grandpa…. I love you, too."

It’s night, we’re passing through Stamford, less than an hour to New York. That’s why I’m blogless, a Boston Barmitzvah’s to blame. But I’d better skip the blame game. The fact is busyness is the scourge of the 21st century, for those who are lucky. Lights suddenly go out, I’m writing in the dark, back on, an anticlimax. On or off, I haven’t seen the face of the man behind. I probably never will, just want to let his words simmer. Lights out again.

As I left the Shorewood Fitness Center last week, I overheard another cell phone conversation, a man walking to his car. "I’m about to go home now, call you when I get there," and a train of questions chugged through my head. How many people on earth can say I’m about to go home and actually have a home to go to, not a refugee camp, a shelter, a tin shack, a nook under a bridge? How many can say with confidence I’ll call you when I get there, knowing it’s safe to walk or ride, no shooting, no war, no drug dealers, forest fires,hurricanes, tsunamis?

Do we have any idea of what portion of the world has no home to go home to? Is afraid to walk the streets, if there are streets? And on the Amtrak train I think of revisiting Taiwan, Israel, or Mexico, while the young man behind us contemplates trips to India or Morocco. The man outside the Shorewood Fitness Center ambles to his car, talking on his cell, ready to drive home, sure of getting there.

And the millionaires and billionaires in Washington plot new ways to avoid paying taxes.

Last January I wrote a blog that I saved. I wanted to think about it more and offer suggestions before I posted it. But now I see that Dave Tatarowics has been looking at the very issue that troubles me, so I thought I'd post my blog now. Nothing has changed that I know of since I wrote it:

On Martin Luther King Day, as I listened to a replay of Dr. King's last speech, I mused on that sore spot in the psyche, the one that makes tragedy repeat itself. MLK, JFK, RFK, each time we celebrate their lives, I'm reliving their deaths, re-mourning their absence, and wondering how history would have played out if they were still here.

Our country needs Martin Luther King, Jr. more than ever. So does Shorewood. Last summer at a rummage sale I overheard a man ask a woman, “Did you move to Shorewood?”
She replied, “Never. You know me.”
“Why wouldn't you move to Shorewood?” I asked.
“Lack of diversity.” That's what I figured, and although I love living here, I felt ashamed.

Shorewood seems more diverse than it was when we moved here in 1969. One big change is all the Russian Jews, who walk the bike path fearlessly and shop along Oakland Avenue. I googled the statistics, and here's what I found: Shorewood Population - 13,763 (I suspect this is a couple of years old): Latino 2.5%, White 89.8%,  Black 2.4%, Asian 3.2%, Other 1.8% Median income $56,698. Thanks to busing, the schools are somewhat integrated, but they should be integrated thanks to housing. We do have a lot of modest housing, Milwaukee bungalows and duplexes that would be reasonably priced if they weren't located here. People move to Shorewood for the schools, not the homes, yet living in a diverse community is a major part of education.

I heard a segment on NPR last week about a new study: Diversity Spurs Workplace Creativity. My personal education stems in large part from the places I've been, not from the places themselves but from the people I've met there, from trying to understand lives as different as possible from my own. That's the challenge for us all.

Where am I going with this? Possibly nowhere. The solution is affordable housing, and I don't hear anyone talking about that. Well, actually I do. As the housing market bottoms out, maybe Shorewood will become affordable.

The phone rang just as we were about to leave for the evening. “It's Jon Healy. Are you both sitting down? I have some grave news.” Maybe I'd misunderstood. Grave sounds like great in a world full of wishes that can't come true. Strange. A voice comes over the phone line. I don't want to hear it, yet I want to know. So I listened in a nightmare state. Jon's sister, Ellen, was hit by a pickup truck that morning. He hadn't said yet whether or not she was still alive. I waited, hoped. But there was no hope. She'd been declared brain dead.

My mind filled with images of Ellen, tried to erase that final one. She was more than Sarah's friend, was close to our whole family. I suddenly wanted to be sure: were she and Sarah really only four years old when they met? I looked through my old Hallmark date books. Yes. June 24, 1967, was their first play date. I'd wanted Sarah to meet another child going to JCC day camp. And that child turned out to be Ellen. Ellen's spirit, the oomph combined with innocence that sparked their friendship 40 years ago, never changed. Part of her became an adult, yet she kept the child within.

Ellen was unique, truly unique, simply herself, no pretenses, enthusiastic about life and learning, off the wall in the best possible way. And creative, always ready to play, always inventive. And brilliant. Her PHD professor said she was one of the best students he'd ever had.

I used to go out dancing with my kids and their friends. Ellen and I had a special electricity, would mime crazy, anything goes, skits to the music, even when her leg was in a cast. She collaborated with me when I started performing, acting out one of my short stories. Sarah and Ellen had that same sort of electricity. One summer they painted together in the Shorewood alleyways, inspired each others' company. I never saw the paintings Ellen did that summer, but I know Sarah's were some of her best.

Ellen often came to our family dinners with the Leplaes, a lively presence in our games of charades, story-writing, pictionary, or whatever else we figured out to play. After she moved away from Milwaukee, she and I always made sure we'd take a bike ride together whenever she visited.

Ellen's life wasn't easy, was haunted by illness and accidents, falling out of trees, sledding into one. She seemed to take it all in stride. She had facial surgery as a result of the sledding accident. When we visited her in the hospital, she looked like Little Lulu, yet didn't appear at all nonplussed, didn't have to apologize for her swollen face.

Ellen's core, her intense interior life, always showed through. She cared about nature, about the arts, about the world, cared about friends and family. And we all cared about her. You can get a sense of the impact she had on others' lives if you read the blogs written about her and come to the memorial service at Rosenblatt Gallery, located over Artasia at 181 N. Broadway, on Saturday, November 17, at 1:30 PM. Ellen grew up in Shorewood, and I hope some of you reading this will share your memories with the rest of us.

The world needs more people like Ellen, but tragically we have one less.