A bright, sunshiny day

Have you been to the Google home page today, May 22? The lovely graphic above will greet you – for one day only.

I have Google set as my default home page when I open a browser, so I see it first thing. I love the way on holidays and random special days Google artists make the logo – which they call a "doodle" – into something appropriate, like this one for the 50th anniversary of Legos.



Today the site features a contest-winning logo by a California sixth-grader, Grace Moon. She wrote of her entry: "My doodle, 'Up in the Clouds,' expresses a world in the sky. This new world is clean and fresh, and people are social and enlightened. Every person here is treated as family no matter who they are. The bright sun heats this ideal place with warmth, love, and brightens everyone's day."

Thank you, aptly-named Grace, for beginning my online day with your art and your optimism. I wish Google would leave your logo up for longer than 24 hours. In these times of economic crisis, worldwide instability, and generalized anxiety, we could all benefit from a bracing dose of hope, springing eternally from the heart of a child.

Dude ... That's sick

Live and well at last!

There is nothing like being awfully sick to make you appreciate your (otherwise normal) good health.

One night last week I came home and, before I could begin to make supper, a 500-pound gorilla sat on my chest.

Well, not really. But that's how it felt. I was gasping. My bronchia were squeezed tight. I sank into a recliner and stayed there for an hour or so. And I began to cough. Deep, chest-rattling coughs.

A day or two later, I got home on a Thursday night, put on my pajamas, sat down, and basically didn't get up again for the next four days. To say I had a chest cold is like saying Hurricane Katrina was a strong breeze. Not even close.

I didn't leave the house until late Tuesday, and I stayed home from work until Wednesday, two days ago. For three nights, I slept in the recliner, swathed in Polarfleece blankets; if I tried to lie down in bed, the resulting wet chest cough made me sit right up again.

So yeah, I was pretty sick. How sick was I? So sick that Saturday night, I missed Kevin's confirmation at St. Sebastian's, and dinner at a restaurant afterwards. So sick I couldn't eat anything but broth the next day, Mother's Day. Who knew May still had flu germs lurking about?

I'm back, and while tired, I'm really glad to have that unpleasantness behind me. I managed to read two lightweight page-turners by Jodi Picoult and do several dozen crossword puzzles and untold Sudokus.





Meanwhile, the kids gave me cute cards for Mother's Day, and Michael brought me two Reese's peanut butter cups, which I saved until yesterday to eat, since I couldn't taste anything until then.

Caroline came over today and we had fun with Photobooth again.


Yesterday I got a nice haircut from Eileen, so I'm ready for some very busy weeks to come. Bring on Brown's Commencement and Melinda's graduation.


Miss Caroline, you are sweet enough to eat! Nom nom.

Meatloaf (and a yellow rose)

This blog entry is for busy cooks: my foolproof, easy, low-fat turkey meatloaf recipe. Actually, it isn't mine; I got it from Cooks.com. But I've made it so many times, it feels like my own.


Basic Turkey Meatloaf

1 lb. ground turkey
1/2 cup seasoned bread crumbs
1/3 cup chopped raw onion
1 egg, beaten
1 tsp. Worcestershire sauce
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
1/4 tsp. dry mustard

Mix all ingredients well – I begin with a spoon but end up using my hands, like making mud pies – and shape into loaf. Place in greased loaf pan or baking dish (I prefer Pyrex or other ovenproof glass) for 1 hour at 350 degrees.

Before baking, you may squirt some ketchup on top and spread evenly with a spatula. Allow turkey loaf to cool slightly before slicing.


Do you like the beautiful golden-yellow rose in the meatloaf photo, above? It's Melinda's souvenir from the Honor Society banquet held Thursday night. A good time was had by all the smart kids, like our daughter and her friends.

To my daughter on Yom HaShoah

Dear Melinda,

This prayer was found on a scrap of paper during the liberation of the Ravensbrück concentration camp in Germany in World War II. It was written by one of the prisoners, all of whom were women.

Prayer for Yom HaShoah (Holocaust Remembrance Day)

Lord, remember not only the men of good will, but also those of ill will. But do not remember all the suffering they have inflicted upon us.

Remember rather the fruits we have brought, thanks to this suffering: our comradeship, our loyalty, our humility, the courage, the generosity, the greatness of heart that has grown out of this.

And when they come to judgment, let all the fruits we have borne be their forgiveness.

Today is Holocaust Remembrance Day. I'm glad you are reading so many of Elie Wiesel's books – not just in school, but also on your own. I'm also glad that as a hopeful future lawyer, you possess and articulate a fierce, innate conviction of what is right and wrong, fair and unfair.



In 1945, an American soldier (above) gazed into a mass grave near a German concentration camp where children's corpses – including a baby's – lay awaiting burial. This is a horrific photograph, but we need to see and remember what evil looks like. As the singer Chana Rothman says, "The truth hurts, but it opens our eyes." (Thanks to Neil Fleischmann for that.) The prisoner who wrote her prayer on a scrap of paper had greatness of heart indeed to contemplate forgiving such slaughter of innocents and the needless suffering of so many. (National Archives photo)

We must always defend human rights in order to avoid repeating the horrors of Hitler's camps on any scale. Our generation has tried but not always done so well in protecting history's scapegoats du jour in our country and throughout the world. I hope your generation will succeed where we have fallen short. You are our hope.

Love,
Mom

'Tall, alone'

In a timely footnote to the story of the dying tree (see "Old Sap," below) one of my friend's neighbors slipped two poems into her newspaper early this morning in celebration of "April, National Poetry Month." I love the idea of a poetry aficionado salting the neighborhood, like a literary Easter bunny leaving sweets. We both love this particular poem:

Entrance
Rainer Maria Rilke

Whoever you are: step out of doors tonight,
Out of the room that lets you feel secure.
Infinity is open to your sight.
Whoever you are.
With eyes that have forgotten how to see
From viewing things already too well-known,
Lift up into the dark a huge, black tree
And put it in the heavens: tall, alone.
And you have made the world and all you see.
It ripens like the words still in your mouth.
And when at last you comprehend its truth,
Then close your eyes and gently set it free.

Old sap

My Connecticut friend e-mailed me today about a doomed tree in her front yard:

It's about 100 years old, 60 feet high, cabled extravagantly, and the pride of the neighborhood. Last week a giant branch fell, shaking the house but not damaging person or property. The tree doctor told us its time had come, and we are in shock and denial about this. It's like putting any other living creature to sleep.

Oh, yes. I know exactly what she means. A mature tree is like an old man or woman: majestic, dignified, beautiful. You can actually love a tree.

Not only that, but there's the whole killing-a-living-thing aspect of tree-felling. The sound of a chain saw in action outdoors can bring me to tears. I have apologized to plants while pruning their stems to encourage fuller growth; indeed, in my 20s I composed in my head a short poem about pinching the central stalks from potted impatiens cuttings, ending with this lament: "Life just begun / is done, is done." (Drama "R" us.)

I responded to my friend with sympathy about the impending loss of her tree:

ME: It’s a death similar to a beloved pet’s death. On an inane level, I have trouble throwing out post-Christmas poinsettias.

HER: I'm getting so whacked out as I age that I can't stand to kill a tree for Christmas! Last year we had a live tree, and it's still alive (but outside).

ME: We’ve had an artificial one for about five years. I started imagining that the fresh-cut tree’s sap was its tears, and that was that.

We then segued into the subject of eating meat and the horror of slaughterhouses. I mentioned Temple Grandin and her efforts to make the farming and killing of livestock more humane. A fascinating wrinkle in this story is the fact that Grandin, holder of a Ph.D. in animal science, is herself autistic.

SHE: I love Temple Grandin. Do you know about the hugging machine she invented?

ME: No! But I want one! Is it for people?

SHE: It's for autistic people who can't stand other people touching them. But the beneficial effects of being hugged are necessary for emotional growth – so she invented this machine she lies in that hugs her.

That's very cool. Grandin knew that as a human being she needed something, and she found a way to get it while acknowledging the limitations imposed by her autism.

As someone whose affect lies near the opposite emotional pole from autistic, I enjoy hugging, and being hugged by, real people. My family is in the living room (a rare moment of shared activity – watching a baseball game on TV), and I am going out there now to collect some hugs. You should get some, too. If you're alone, well, go outside and hug a tree. I believe the tree will realize, in an intuitive, plant-ish way, that you – fellow organism, alive – are there with your arms wrapped lovingly around it.

Round and round

We have photographs in our albums of Michael taking a very young Melinda on the merry-go-round at Roger Williams Park in Providence. (It's always Michael on the rides: I get too dizzy.) Today "Poppop" took Caroline on her first carousel ride in the same park.


Caroline chose a big rabbit instead of a painted pony. And, yes, the bunny did go up and down. Whee!

Afterward, we strolled among beautiful flowering trees in the small Japanese garden. Geese sailed alongside us on the green canals. What a day! – temperatures in the 70s and a whisper of a breeze. When it bothers to show up, spring is almost unbearably lovely.

The sight of a small toddler clutching the hand of a great big dad or grandfather never fails to make me say, or at least think, "Awwwww." When it's your own granddaughter and husband, the sight is especially endearing.

Trust me: you really should click on this photo of Caroline to see it larger.

The last word goes to the incomparable Joni Mitchell, whose lyrics I have alluded to above:

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on a carousel of time
We can't return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game.

The color orange

This place (above) is changing my attitude about a certain hue.

Orange has never been anywhere near my favorite color. I love oranges, orange juice, clementines, orangey-red hair, and pumpkins. When I was a kid, I adored Fanta orange soda. But it didn't take long for me to figure out that with my pinkish complexion, blonde hair, and blue eyes, orange apparel washed me right out.

Later, when our daughter came into our lives, I dressed her in pink, purple, lime, turquoise, red... almost anything bright but orange. Melinda has dark hair and tan/olive skin, and she looks fabulous in jewel tones and pastels. But: "When you grow up," I told her, "don't wear orange. It makes your skin look sort of greenish." Melinda nodded solemnly.

The joke's on me. Melinda is bound for Syracuse University this fall. She is going to be an "Orange Woman."


We made the five-hour drive to Syracuse on Thursday to attend admitted-students open house on Friday. I had never seen the university before. The campus's blend of beautiful old buildings and sleek new ones is impressive. The faculty and students were bright and friendly. And everywhere we looked, the landscape was dotted with orange.


Branding pennants along the major campus street: orange.


Balloons guiding visitors to the student center: blue and orange.

The campus store: a sea of orange apparel (some of which came home with us). The Carrier Dome, home to Syracuse football and basketball, and site of our buffet lunch on Friday: blue and orange.

The school mascot: Otto the Orange.

By the third day, as we prepared to drive back to Rhode Island, I was beginning to enjoy the cheerful glow of orange. It's sunny – like our daughter's mood as she anticipates her life on campus. During the long Syracuse winters, orange will add a welcome warmth. At long last, I may come to love orange.