2 Songs that Mothers Should Never Sing to their Children

Before she became self-conscious about her singing voice, my mother sang to baby-me at bedtime, after the book chapter was read, In the long run, it was the reading that had the most obvious influence on me as I grew up, and grew older, and grew old. I am a life-long reader as well as a listener to audio books, and could not live without other people's stories and voices. Her singing to me, which stopped when I was about six years old, did not predispose me to a life dedicated to music. In fact, I have a sneaky feeling that her tone-deaf renditions permanently warped my pitch.

But recently I encountered in the depths of my memory a couple of songs that I know without a doubt she sang to me. Not "Baa, Baa Black Sheep" (although it was wondering where the tune I remember for that song came from, once I realized it was suspiciously just like the tune for "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star") nor  "Old Macgregor" nor "One Two Buckle My Shoe" - although she may well have sung them to me.

The songs I dragged up from a sense-memory more than 60 years old were: "My Father Was the Keeper of the Eddystone Light" and "Abdul Abulbul Amir." You must pause here to listen to these two unlikely lullabies, courtesy of YouTube.... Just click the links and walk with me down memory lane. Ignore the masculine renditions. This was my wavering-pitch mom - beautiful, alcoholic, not very reliable, wicked smart and funny as hell.

Probably these songs don't remind you of your toddler years. And no wonder - "slept with a mermaid one fine night"? I couldn't have been more than a baby when I first heard those words, and it didn't occur to me until I was well into my teens that I had never wondered what that meant. And once I thought about it, I was appalled - shocked, shocked! -  as only a teen-age girl can be.

Ah well. And where did my mother get these songs? My guess is that during her young adulthood, before and during WWII, she ran with a bohemian, Dorothy Parker-ish crowd where 18th century sea chanteys were trotted out when the gin and bourbon flowed. And when you think of it, there could have been much worse drinking songs for her to bring into my little nursery! ("Roll Me Over in the Clover" anyone?)

I turned to YouTube to resurrect the lyrics and melodies of these songs.Immediately, I knew exactly which variant of the words she had used, and I was struck by how witty the songs are. They are piquant. They are risque. They aren't French, but they could be, given the adjectives I've chosen....  They are also pretty straightforward to perform: da DUM tee dee DUM tee dee  DUM tee dee DUM. No strange intervals. Nice repetitive melodies. French songs of the time  would have required a Piaf, and that was way beyond her.

So I look at this little horde of sung words that she left me, just part of the very meagre store of good things that she bequeathed me, and I salute her.

Helen Eulalah Sennette Handler: good songs, wry humor -- thanks

2011-09-17_06-40-57_866.jpg

2011-09-17_06-40-57_866.jpg, a photo by elihandler on Flickr.

2011-09-17_06-40-57_866.jpg

midsummer grapes 2011.jpg

midsummer grapes 2011.jpg, a photo by elihandler on Flickr.

midsummer grapes 2011.jpg

A salute to “Sarge”

When Sargent Shriver moved from inventing and building the Peace Corps to heading up President Lyndon Johnson’s War on Poverty, the poverty rate in the US was 19%. In 12 years, between 1966 and 1974, poverty had dropped to 11% -- almost to half the previous rate. Oh, and today it’s 30%.

It’s hard to grasp both the speed of the changes that Shriver helped create, and the fact that we lost the “War on Poverty” after that kind of amazing success.

Shriver was buried yesterdayy, and I was in tears as I listened to the Fresh Air interview on NPR. My first job out of college was with the Office of Economic Opportunity, the agency Shriver established to implement programs such as HeadStart, Community Health Centers, Job Corps and VISTA.

There could not have been a better place for a freshly graduated, directionless and idealistic person to work. The OEO folks were serious, learned, overworked, thrilled, funny, dedicated, eclectic and all on fire with the mission to get this thing done: re-think all the things that keep poor people poor, find ways to inspire change and move on to the next impossible thing.

It threatened the heck out of lots of the guardians of the status quo. But it worked.

I was privileged and honored to have been a part of the programs Sargent Shriver built. I hope that his passing, and the reminder of what he achieved, can re-ignite that spark of idealism and belief in positive change. Thanks, Sarge!

At home in the kitchen, Friday night..

Build myself a little cocktail, start fixing dinner.

Need to make some fresh salad dressing, press some garlic, add olive oil, squeeze in some fresh lemon juice... hmm, pretty sour.

Ok, maybe some balsamic vinegar will smooth out the sharpness. There, a little dash -- CRAP! I put it in my Martini! So -- taste it?!

Ok, not too bad... Not for every day but... Martini Modena? Trend, anyone? Call the Singlebarrel guys!

Dining with a feral fox in the frozen forest...

This is how I've been describing my current eating plan, started right after the first of the year. It's based on a book, Dr. Gundry's Diet Evolution, which I read over the eating extravaganza we fondly call "the holidays" -- although I was not willing to start the plan while pie and mashed potatoes were on offer.

For seven days, I've been using my feral fox image to help me follow the recommendations for the first two weeks of this process. Ms. F. Fox can raid hen-houses in the dead of winter, catch birds and bugs and grubs, can snack on nuts, seeds, bitter mosses and ferns, pine needles, and gag down some kale or cabbage that grows even in the cold. I can eat eggs, meat, fish, nuts, and any vegetable that is green. (Avacados and tomatoes are NOT vegetables.) No fruit, no starchy roots, no grains. No sugar, honey, molasses and no refined or processed foods.

Essentially, the premise of the book is that our Western culture has provided us with a food supply that our bodies interpret as "end of summer, fruit's on the vine, eat everything that tastes sweet and comforting, to build fat for the winter." This evolutionary programing was successful -- so it got nicely encoded in our 21st century genomes, where it is now busy killing us.

This first two weeks in the frozen forest is designed to reset the genes that signal to my body that I, munching sweet potato casserole and mince pies, am in fat-storing mode. A sensible preparation for a winter food shortage, this mode is driven by complex interactions of hormones including insulin, causing every bit of available blood sugar to be packed away as body fat. It's only intended to happen for a few months once a year, not every waking hour all year long.

In another week, I'll be able to start adding back some specific fruits and veggies. If I have done the first two weeks right, I should have lost about 5-8 lbs, according to the book. I'm already down 5 -- probably water weight, but woohoo anyway!

The second premise of the book is that our genes are also being urged to kill us off before we hog any more of the shared resources. I'll talk about that in the next post. It's scary!

Oh, and in honor of my foxy mascot, I'm a redhead again.

A habit of strenuous casualness

Ok, that's a really clumsy headline. I can't come up with a better short description of the language we use to describe some of the most casual and careless actions in our everyday life. Here are some examples:

-- throw on some jeans
-- run to the store
-- dash off an e-mail
-- dive into a project
-- toss in a load of laundry
-- throw dinner together
-- fall asleep

These are mundane activities, no sweat or strain required. And yet the verbs we use are more appropriate to Olympic competition. Any ideas on why we do that?

Hair to-do

Being chronically dissatisfied with how my hair looks on any given day, I'm extremely sensitive to feedback from others on my hair. The last months have been especially harrowing, since I've gone through a cycle of:

Long-ish

Medium-ish

Shorter

Short

Crazyshort

When I started -- at long-ish, around the time the current picture was taken -- I got tired of the ceaseless maintenance. If you do any exercise and are likely to go outside in "weather," curly hair that is more than about four inches long is hard to keep looking groomed and grownup.

Also, I had the mad notion that if I cut it short, I could let the grey grow in and stop coloring my hair. (I somehow avoided recognizing that the final result would be that I'd look like a large, stout, old man with an odd taste in handbags...)

So I went big-time short, and I got good comments on the first version. Encouraged, I went shorter. By the time I hit crazyshort I was getting ambiguous comments like "Oh, do you like it like that?" and "I just loved your hair longer..."

Such feedback sends out danger signs to my psyche, so I decided to change course and go back to at least medium-length bob. Women, you know what that is. Men, don't bother, and why are you reading this, anyway?

How long does it take to get there from crazyshort? How long did it take to excavate AND caulk AND decorate the Panama Canal? How many eons elapsed between someone noticing they had five toes on each foot and base 10 mathematics?

We're about five inches longer than crazyshort now. Still not tangling up my bicycle wheels. No danger of smothering babies I should choose to cuddle.

Predictably, no feedback, either. So, waiting, waiting through that endless in-between place...

In the meantime, I'm cruising the Styling Products aisle of the drugstore. I'm using the blow dryer, flat iron AND airbrush. I am considering hats, and even wore a spangled beret to church and Christmas Eve dinner with my family and NO-ONE SAID ANYTHING! Pretty conclusive proof that I have sunk totally below the fashion radar and it just doesn't matter what the f*** I do with my hair! How interesting to realize that my thoughts on hair styling are about as relevant as the mediaeval monks' obsession with a choice of cowslips or anenomes.

Ok, good to have that settled.

China: What are you thinking?

I am sort of loving the hoo-ha that China is kicking up about the jailed dissident, Liu Xiaobo, and the Nobel Peace Prize.

It reminds me of the fights that would break out when my children were small. At one point in child development, "my feelings are more hurt than yours, so I must be right" seems to take hold. I think it emerges, briefly, around the age of four. Girls seem more susceptible than boys, but it's pretty gender-agnostic. With decent parents and teachers, the four-year-old will move away from the need to be the biggest drama queen and the biggest manipulator on the block.

I think China missed a crucial stage, whether at the age of four or at another point in history. When a powerful person or entity is stuck at this stage, the first victim is any notion of right or wrong.

So, here's how it seems to play out...

Assume these thigs to be true:

1. You're a corrupt repressive totalinarian regime.
2. Someone who who opposes you does so peacefully yet openly, in view of the world's news media.
3. You publicly jail and otherwise oppress the protester.
4. There is a well known international prize for people who are punished for peaceful protest against oppression.
5. That prize (the Nobel Peace Prize) is awarded to the protester.

OK - now please explain: why the world would honor your hurt feelings, and reverse or denounce the Nobel Committee's decision?

China - go to the naughty chair. You have one news cycle to apologize and take it back.

Bliss -- is that all there is?

I'm coming up to my 66th birthday, so it's likely I've had a bunch of major peak moments, ecstatic experiences and mind-altering drugs to give me a pretty good idea of what "bliss" is all about.

But the fact is, it's not about being high, in love, or at the apex of a career. I had a bliss moment today as I came home from work, and I want to explain how it felt, and what the components were.

Still with me? Maybe once you figured out there wasn't a hot, monkey-sex scene, you tuned out.

Here's what added up to a bliss moment for me at around 6:27 pm Pacific Standard Time today, August 4, 2010.

• I spent a few hours this morning feeding breakfast to and otherwise entertaining my four-year-old twin grandchildren, Tess and Jack.
• While with the twins, I was on a conference call with a world-class new client, San Jose Rep.
• I had a meeting with an important business-development client, and we spent about half the time talking about our favorite British TV programs, especially comedies. "Yes, Minister"? "Vicar of Dibley"? "Blackadder"? Anyone?
• The awesome team I have -- Jodi, a well-respected journalist and editor, and Jen, a bleeding-edge social media expert -- met with me and our e-marketing partner to move a very complicated proposal forward.It worked! I know what I have to do!
• I'm coming home to a clean house. Thanks, Robin!
• My daughter - the mom of twins -- wants to go to a movie with me this weekend.
• The weather: during my two moments of exposure, about 6 am at 6:35 pm -- it was heavenly... a cloudless sky, light breeze, about 72 degrees F. OMG, San Jose is the place you go when you die if you've been really, really good.
• I'm going to have steak and a sweet potato for dinner. And maybe a little Martini with extra olives.

So that's what it takes. And you know, I'm totally ok with that.

Penicillin Rocks!

On Monday of this week, I was about as cheerful as a 65-year-old, single, overweight, working grandmother is likely to get. My job was busy and interesting, my hair was looking good, I'd weighed in at Weight Watchers some 5+ lbs lighter and had enjoyed two great mornings with the grandtwins over the previous weekend. Good times!

By Tuesday morning, I was as sick as I can remember being in 50 years: weak, scared, hurting, feverish, slightly delusional and hopeless. A cunning one-two punch of strep throat and shingles with a chaser of guilt about staying home sick

Thank you, Alexander Fleming, for noticing what happened when some mold grew on one of your petri dishes filled with gram-positive bacteria in 1928. Thanks to Ernst Chain, Howard Florey and Norman Heatley who each contributed to the lengthy R&D phase of extracting, producing and stabilizing industrial quantities of Fleming's discovery, penicillin.

TIME magazine called penicillin "the most efficacious, life-saving drug in the world." Shout out to TIME -- this stuff is ferocious!

And thank god for bringing me down with a bacteria, and a gram-positive one at that.

It's now Friday. Hair isn't quite up to Monday's standard. I'm not energized, but I'm functioning. I'm not despairing. I can look forward to things to come. Off to work, thanks to Alexander, Ernst, Howard and Norman -- my guys.

Flickr

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

No longer a Walmart virgin...

(Above: Costco. To right: Walmart)

I don't know why it's taken me this long to go to a Walmart. Ok, that's not true. There are two main reasons.

1. I've never lived near a Walmart and not near Costco, Target or other mega-shopping option.
2. I have a negative attitude towards Walmart based on media coverage and my perception of the company and its business philosophy.

However, I always thought I was probably missing out on something, given the chain's relentless popularity. Up to now my attitude has been mild curiosity, but not quite enough to impel me to travel long distances to check out the Walmart experience.

Last week, I was driving home down Senter Road from a client meeting in East San Jose. Just a mile or two from my house I drove past a Walmart. "So close," I thought, and yesterday I set out to explore this cultural icon.

My first impression was that the parking lot wasn't as huge as I had anticipated, and I was glad to find a parking spot quickly. My second impression was "Oh man, it's goin' down!" -- two police cars drawn up by the store entrance, and a posse of uniformed cops, one of whom was shaking down a grubby guy who seemed to have set up business soliciting donations or signatures. My third impression, about the time I took this picture, was "let me out of here."

Was it the ugly painted-concrete floors, the harsh fluorescent lighting strips, the combination of crammed fixtures, half-depleted shelves and large empty areas, the smell of lysol? Was it the irritating maze-like layout? Was it the relentlessly down-market selection of brands on offer? Was it that everyone I could see was 2' shorter than me? Sure, but all these weren't quite enough to account for my pressing need to leave. After one circuit, not even stopping to pick up the toilet paper that was my reason for shopping, I decamped past the cop cars with a huge sense of relief.

Now I had to break down the experience. Was it the store? Was I having a reaction to the people shopping there? Was it me just not being in the mood for crowds and consumption? In a spirit of investigation and because I still needed the TP, I went right to my local Costco.

By the time I walked through the enormous Costco door along with hundreds of exactly the same short folk as the Walmart shoppers, I was almost whimpering with relief and the excitement of bulk purchasing.

So that settled it - the problem was not me or the shoppers, it was Walmart. I got the TP, found some excellent steaks and some fabulous artisan whole-wheat bread. To record the glaring difference between the two stores, I took a picture while I was waiting in the checkout line.

Now that I compare the two images, it's hard for me to find a clear visual clue to my different reactions. My best guess is that Costco's high warehouse ceilings are easier on the spirit, and the lighting isn't so oppressive.

Whatever the reason, that Walmart gave me the full-body oogs, and it will be a long time before I try another one.

O Tannenbaum...

I was determined to keep Christmas going until Twelfth Night, in the good old tradition. But Twelfth Night is next Wednesday, right in the middle of the work week. So I decided today was the day, and I de-trimmed, de-lighted (not as fun as it sounds...) and put both my yard tree and the indoor tree, plus two wreaths, out for pickup at the curb.

But I definitely had a moment with the indoor tree. A Noble Fir - the first I think I've bought - the tree was elegantly proportioned, just the right height to fit in my front bay window, with regularly spaced limbs and no worrying sparse areas. And the needles have this amazing bluey-green underside, so that from below, each branch looks frosted. Untrimmed, destined to move out the door for good, it appealed to me and I truly saw it as a blessing, not a needle-shedding nuisance.

I said goodbye formally, and took a last picture of the perfect, beautiful and fancy needles.

Soup of the season, soup of the day

For some reason I have become very interested in making and eating soup. I think it started with a very large container of dried mushrooms I found at Costco. Included were Porcini, Morels, Brazilian (?!), Ivory Portabellas, Shiitake and Oyster. Although weighing only eight ounces, the container was more than 15" high and 5" on each side - now that could be lifetime supply...

I've used all but the last 4". I've done pasta, stuffed peppers, and two large batches of home-made mushroom soup, pictured here at the simmering in butter phase, before liquids are added.

This last batch I made for Sunday dinner between Christmas and the New Year, with Alison, Brink, Susan and the twins Tessa and Jack. Adults were pleased with the soup and took second helpings. Jack and Tessa, as typical three-year-olds, were still working on the crack cocaine supplied by the Christmas season - toys, sugar and irregular schedules, plus a touch of parental stress.

Cooking for my family is without question one of the most satisfying things I can do - I could be happy making toast. However, there is nothing like a challenge ingredient to up the stakes and make life a little more interesting.

Blue Moon Red Shoe New Year's Eve

My transition into 2010 is a repeat of quite a few previous years - dog-sitting for the grand-dogs, Nikos and Cyprus. This is a good, socially and familially functional activity, and since I don't much relate to the frenzy of New Year's Eve, one that I am happy to fulfill.

This Dec. 31st, however, I found myself interested in a slightly richer experience. I bought some red pumps. To my memory, I don't think I have ever owned red shoes, and I have been jonesing for them for years. Many are the outfits I have longed to "pop" with some sassy red heels. I may just wear them to look at the second full moon this month.

This year - they are mine! Blue moon, red shoes -- I feel the planets aligning for a really awesome year. Outdoors, pups! Moon's up!

Carriage ride with the BBs

I love the Willow Glen tradition of hosting carriage rides in the Christmas season. Being horse-mad is just part of it. The lights on the stores, streets and houses are lovely, strangers wave, there's a feeling of being outside of every day life.

Tessa was agog, Jack a little unsure about the unfamiliar surroundings. And it wasn't the same as the ride last year. This time it was a flat cart with about 12 seats, drawn by a handsome white Percheron, and the 20-minute route was just up and down Lincoln Avenue. Last year, we rode in an open barouche, a four-seater carriage dating from the 1800s, pulled by a good looking bay, not a draft horse. Last year the ride was through the side-streets off Lincoln, through the residential areas where people go all out on their light displays. Actually, a better experience. But I'm not quibbling - there was a horse, 4/5 of my family were with me, and I loved it. Can't wait for next year!

Just a couple of ornaments....

I gave in to the pull of those pushy, sentimental tree ornaments, pleading silently from their nests of newspaper and more stylish packing materials.

Over the years I've delighted in clear globes, red apples, wooden musical instruments, fruits and vegetables and more recently,cooking implements and animals. And I've honored the contributions made by my daughters, whose pictures go on the tree every year.

Here you'll see Hedge-Pig, lower center, the coffee grinder up and to the right, and Owl, upper right.

The really old item is on the lower right, the three construction-paper rings that remain from a long long chain that my mother and I made when I was about 5. Now that I think back, this was at the small school for expats' kids in Belgrade (in the former Yugoslavia), that she and some other mothers started for the school-age children the of newspaper reporters and diplomats. It was 1949, in a post-war, communist country with no retail, no consumer goods, no Christmas. My parents and I were living in two rooms in a hotel. I have no idea what else we might have put on the tree, or where we might have found a tree...

Autumn in San Jose at Christmas-time

I really do love the climate here... there is an autumn and it lasts until summer, with just a handful of quite cold and wet days to make it winter-ish.

When I got home between trips to Target and Costco, I saw the deck-full of leaves outside the kitchen door. Such a lovely yellow on a rainy day. They're from my neighbors' bitternut tree (look it up - I did!) and they blanket my whole house, yard, deck, car.

Just as I was about to take the picture, Hendricks the drop-in cat inserted himself into the frame.

Ok, off to Costco. Should be fun... find your happy place, feel the gestalt, join the crowd, love the crowd....

Managed to get the lights on the Christmas tree before my back objected. I must say, is it wrong just to want the lovely, clear, white lights, and not all the tchotchke ornaments that I've delighted in collecting all these years? Do I really need the three-section faded construction paper links that I made in 2nd grade? The hand-made ornaments memorializing some of my daughters' least appealing boy friends? The several German pickles that totally enthralled me for about five Christmases? The tiny copper teakettle? The Italian Chianti bottle? Actually, why go to the trouble of putting them on the tree - they are all totally alive to me anyway!