GIRLS OF RIYADH

I picked up this book on a whim. My fascination with Muslim culture began years ago when I assigned my twelfth grade honors students Azar Nafisi's text READING LOLITA IN TEHRAN. Nafisi assigns forbidden Western texts to her college students who meet in the basement of her home in Tehran to discuss literary style, themes in popular Western texts such as THE GREAT GATSBY, and the diparity between cultural norms in the West as opposed to customs during the Ayatollah's reign in Iran.

Girls of Riyadh is a delightful read.

A young female, Rajaa Alsanea, first time author, creates a narrator who sends emails to subscribers of her online list serve. The narrator links the lives of her four wealthy, elite young Muslim girlfriends as they struggle through love relationships, professional responsibilities, and the drama that ensues when they must deal with very strict Muslim customs in every aspect of their lives.

The internet provides a way for them to communicate and provide support to each other.

In Saudi Arabia men and women are forbidden to mix. Virginity is protected at all costs. Special police enforce strict codes: a woman caught with a man suffers public humiliation and a trip to jail.

Reviewers who compare this book with SEX AND THE CITY are off the mark. Intelligent, professional Saudi women living in this modern world chat online as they tell us funny, sad, and profound stories about their lives. I loved the book.

SLI USL ULL The University of Louisiana

Southwestern Louisiana Institute-University of Southwestern Louisiana- The University of Louisiana

I graduated from USL in 1968 with a Bachelor's degree in English Education, minors in Library Science and French. My husband's departure from the university was delayed because of his love of scholarship and Bouree, not necessarily in that order. I immediately entered Graduate school, but my Master's was postponed until the 80's while we moved from La to Texas, back to LA, then to GA.

Baker Hall, my residence as a freshman, meant that I had four roommates. My friend, Mary Beth, Blo Byars and a striking brunette from Eunice, and a thin, willowy blonde whose names escape me, shared the suite. Sadly, we lost touch. Like Harry Potter or a gnome, many nights I studied in a stairwell with my lamp to escape the constant activity. Growing up in a family of six girls, I had no problem walking down the hall to the community showers.

I graduated from USL in 1968 with a Bachelor's degree in English Education, minors in Library Science and French. My husband's departure from the university was delayed because of his love of scholarship and Bouree, not necessarily in that order. I immediately entered Graduate school, but my Master's was postponed until the 80's while we moved from La to Texas, back to LA, then to GA.

Baker Hall, my residence as a freshman, meant that I had four roommates. My friend, Mary Beth, Blo Byars and a striking brunette from Eunice, and a thin, willowy blonde whose names escape me, shared the suite. Sadly, we lost touch. Like Harry Potter or a gnome, many nights I studied in a stairwell with my lamp to escape the constant activity. Growing up in a family of six girls, I had no problem walking down the hall to the community showers.

I worked as a student aide to Dr. Mary Dichmann, English Department Head. Her secretary, Isabelle LeBlanc, a refined, gentle, and extremely professional soul took me under her wing. I did not realize until I worked at my first teaching job how much I learned about professional decorum, conversing with professors, and organization. Dr. Dichmann and Mrs. Champeaux attended my wedding in 1968.

Girls were not permitted to wear pants to class, so I had to wear a raincoat over my ballet clothes as I ran down campus to my next class.

As a Southwestern Sweetheart, I performed at half-time football games. Our dance coach told everyone to lose twenty pounds. I was a size 8. Tofu, yogurt, and energy bars did not exist. What to do!

A sophomore in Dr. Dichmann's class, I realized I was different from some of the other students who had attended larger schools with more comprehensive curricula. I felt somewhat better when Dr. Dichmann read an article from Harper¿s Magazine, which I have subscribed to all my adult life, and some girl in the class blurted out how much she loved the fashions in that magazine, Of course, she meant Harper¿s Bazaar. Oh my. I earned an A in that class because I studied feverishly. Imagine having a class with the head of the English Department who is also your boss!

I moved to Harris Hall the next year and roomed with Marguerite Castex, Marcella Eustis and her friend Susan, from New Orleans whose home I visited. In my senior year, l roomed with Harlene Nance from New Iberia. Deborah Dunstane from Port Allen and I became good friends. Our tall dorm Mother dressed impeccably: high heels, dresses, severe bun, and provocative makeup. I imagined if she smoked, she used a cigarette holder, like Cruella Deville. I was elected President of the Judiciary Board my senior year. Like the Salem witch trials, we condemned girls who missed curfew or made out in the bushes at the entrance to our dorm. Their punishment: confined to quarters, except for classes. I loved pounding that gavel!

Smoking was permitted in the basement of Harris which we used as a study room. I remember typing papers on a typewriter and using Liquid Paper or those crummy little white pieces of tape for corrections. Oh, and we typed footnoted at the bottom of each page, so we had to know the exact length of the footnote combined with the text or the entire page had to be retyped.

The summer before my senior year I took Shakespearean English with Mr. Broussard who demanded readings of 10 Shakespearean plays in six weeks. Scared straight, I escaped to my grandmother¿s house, sequestered in a guest room and poured over every line of each play. I still have those copious class notes, and I filled three blue books answering the essay exam. Lady Macbeth tells Macbeth, ¿Screw your courage to the sticking place,¿ a martial metaphor, and I did.

My all-time favorite professors were Dr. Milton Rickels and Dr. Pat Rickels. Non-natives of LA, but enamored of LA culture, they published and promoted engaging histories and stories about south Louisiana. Their American literature classes promoted scholarship as well as camaraderie. Students enjoyed a meal and engaging conversations at their home at the end of each semester.

I loved USL. My husband and I belong to the 1000+ member USL Alumni club in Marietta. Each fall we attend a gumbo cook off and in the spring a crawfish boil with crawfish imported from Louisiana.

MONEYBALL

My 38 yr old son recommended I read MONEYBALL: THE ART OF WINNING AN UNFAIR GAME. I am a voracious reader, but unless the book is a sports hero biography, I would not spend time reading a book about sports to save my life. I then reminded my son what I don’t like about broadcast sports.


My husband Larry is a rabid sports fan. For an LSU, Saints, Falcons, or UGA game, he dresses head to toe in team colors and insignia: hat, shirt, shorts, and shoes. He stays up ungodly hours to watch the end of a Braves game. He watches golf with his eyeballs glued to the screen. He stands during football games, argues with the refs, yells at players, and grabs his head like he’s having a seizure. I don’t understand.

I spent $300 at Dollar General in Loreauville on LSU and Saints attire for him. The shocked sales clerk saw three loaded shopping carts and danced on the counter. Larry swears that the she was awarded Salesperson of the Year.

I have tried to watch sports with him. Golf is sleepy boring. Announcers speak in hushed tones. Complete silence for long minutes when the golfer aims for that tiny circle in the ground. Sleep-inducing.

Football , I’ve decided, is every man’s desire for Stone Age aggression to prove his strength and stamina. I cannot watch a football game without hearing bones crunch, heads pound, and backs crack. How can any wife, mother, or girlfriend view their men being attacked with such brute force? Although, I did watch every minute of the Super Bowl this year and reveled in the Saints’ big win.

And, my least favorite . . . baseball. Spit and scratch. Disgusting. What kind of message about civility and health does chewing tobacco, spitting on the ground, and moving parts around send? I am convinced that’s why the Brits don’t play baseball. I actually composed a passionate but direct letter to the Baseball Commissioner voicing my concern. Larry subtly suggested I table it until we discussed the discussion [laughter] it would provoke.

And the game’s not over when the game’s over. Broadcasters spin statistics and dissect plays in jock talk for hours following the game. They pretend to be scientists: the impact of the climate on Friday’s game . . ., kinesiologists: that player can leap, spin and fly . . ., and sociologists; the entire country is betting on the odds on Super Bowl day. Excuse me. They’re all last generation former pro players.

But I did read MONEYBALL anyway. And I liked it. It’s not a page-turner but a worthy read. It’s about the game of BASEBALL. Lots of talk about trading, stats, and jock speak.

The premise of this book chronicles the unique strategy used by Billy Beane, General Manager of the Oakland Athletics, to elevate a poor team with a small payroll by using a different yardstick for success.

In the 2002 Billy Beane, a former pro baseball player, performed a science experiment with amateur draft players. Scouts swore to avoid qualities in players described as Rockhead, Soft, Wimp,or the worst . . . Bad Makeup [unsolvable problem.] The Oakland A’s had little money as compared with the Yankees, but each year they won more and more games. Unlike other GMs, Billy Beane hung around the clubhouse. He was resourceful, intelligent, and could scare the living lalalala out of his biggest players. He refused to watch a game during play, but viewed it carefully while he broke things in his office. He ran the show “like a Hollywood producer.” He called Miguel Tejada “Mr. Swing at Everything” and threatened to send him back home to the Dominican Republic. He was capable of humor citing that a player named Furbush should be drafted just because of his name. But Billy was capable of compliments “Great at bats” or “I love your approach,” and players like Scott Hatteburg said Billy created a sense of team for the players.

The Oakland A’s managed to have the best pitchers in the American League. Billy‘s team was playing a different game. A superior manager who used science, worked cheaply, was offered the spot as GM for the Red Sox. He turned it down citing his regret that early in his career he’d signed with the Mets instead of attending Stanford. He wanted to find better ways to build a great ball club with little money and find ballplayers’ virtues.

Good read.

May Segura Vaughn 1893-1978

My grandmother, Mae Segura Vaughn, of French and Spanish descent, struggled to speak English. I learned to translate French when I was very young, so I was able to understand and communicate with her. I taught her to write her name when I was ten.

A marvel and a brunette beauty, she wore dresses, earrings, and makeup every day. She never missed a weekly hair appointment. When she grew too feeble to venture out, I used bobbi pins and white papers to set her hair in pin curls and style it in her favorite do. Her dress up clothing featured neutral hued lined suits or dresses, matching hats and gloves, pearls or matching brooch and earrings, and a wool cashmere winter coat.

Mom Wick’s energy and determination were evident in the manner in which she presided as matriarch of our family. Extremely analytical and proficient, she invented recipes, whipped up seven course meals, canned foodstuffs, and became a gifted seamstress and dress designer.

My grandfather, Willie Wickliff Vaughn, used symbols and drawings on recipe cards to indicate measurements and ingredients for her special culinary concoctions. I marveled at the intricate steps she used to make Jambalaya or gumbo or her special confetti meatballs [boulettes-ground beef and pork stuffed with the trinity: onions, bell pepper, and celery.]Her parsley and onion top garden was located near the back door of her home along the red brick steps. Fresh herbs enhanced her cooking. She regularly delivered meals to needy relatives or friends.

Since she lived right next door to my parents, and I was the first grandchild, I developed an extremely close relationship with her. As a child I observed as she pulled a live chicken through a box nailed to a fence and summarily chopped off its head. That chicken when released squawked and ran around the yard until it dropped dead. She, with the aid of Mrs. Bob, a domestic hired to help with chores, dunked the chicken in boiling water and pulled feathers off until the chicken looked naked. I guess that’s what one would call fresh meat right off the farm.

But my grandparents did not live on a farm, although tenant farmers worked my grandparents’ farm off of Lake Dauterieve Road. They lived smack dab on Main Street in mid-Loreauville. No ordinances or covenants regulated barnyard activities. My grandfather’s barn, located behind his home, housed cows, chickens, an occasional pig, and squatter rabbit families in a fenced area. I remember him showing me how to hold infant rabbits that were as small as my tiny hand.

A cistern next to their home held fresh rain water used mostly for pure activities like washing special garments or watering plants. Even bottled tastes tainted as compared with pure rain water.

Mom Wick created the first microwave: boiling water in a Magnalite pot with a covered dish of food on top of the pot. When I attended summer classes at USL, I returned to her home to study in the afternoons after I dined on her delectable noon dinner.

Mom Wick’s sewing room ran along the entire side of her home. I called it the Glass porch because of the floor to ceiling windows. The walls were made of knotty pine recovered from a train wreck in Loreauville. She sewed baby clothing from flour sacks, Sunday dresses from exquisite fabrics, and elegant cocktail dresses from haute couture materials. We shopped for fabrics, patterns, and notions at quality fabric stores in Baton Rouge or at Heymann’s in Lafayette, fabric stores in New Iberia, or Granger’s in Loreauville.

Very early each morning, she and my grandfather recited the rosary in French as they listened to the rosary on the radio; I don’t ever remember them sleeping late, not even in their twilight years. They slept in double beds in a large bedroom with a fireplace. I doubt that they spent a night apart in their entire sixty year marriage. My grandmother took afternoon naps, and coffee klatched with my mom every day at 10:00 a.m. and again after naptime at 3:00.They sipped Mellow Joy Coffee laden with sugar and cream in demitasse cups.

Every Sunday Mom Wick prepared Sunday dinner after attending early morning mass. We feasted on fried or smothered chicken or chicken fricasse, roast, rice dressing, white rice, mashed potatoes, potato salad, sweet peas, corn, smothered cabbage, homemade bread and cake or pralines for dessert. Seasonal vegetables complemented the varied entrees. We ate organic food fresh from the farm. I seldom saw canned food in her kitchen. She baked cakes from scratch and glazed them with her special homemade icing. She secretly added yellow food coloring to boiled egg yolks to enhance the color of potato salad. Her chili sauce for hot dogs was scrumptious. As a special treat, she served homemade, churned ice cream, [the kind you freeze using ice, salt, and many turns of the wheel] when she served hot dogs. Her engagement photo, circa 1902, sits on a shelf above the stove in my kitchen.

A very spiritual person, Mom Wick worshipped at Sunday mass and believed in the power of praying to her favorite saints. Superstitions intrigued her. She warned me never to step on the sidewalk crack and to walk on the same side of a post or pole as she did. She admitted to me that when she was younger, she hung garlic across the back door of her home for protection against the Loup Garoux. Appearances and demeanor were extremely important to her. I never heard her raise her voice.

I watched her plant, propagate, and care for her many flowers and shrubs. Although she could not name all the plant varieties in her expansive yard, she instinctively knew landscaping and horticulture. In my favorite picture, she wears a floral gardening dress and a large sun hat and is seated on a swing canopied by a tall flowering shrub.

Mom Wick lived vicariously in my recollections to her about my teen activities. She loved to hear about my friends, their outfits, my dance partners, and my school experiences. I appeased her by reciting everything I could remember. When I became the mother of teenagers, I realized what a special relationship I had with my maternal grandmother. When my dates picked me up for the evening, Mom Wick stood on her front porch clutching her rosary as she watched me depart for the evening. Not until I became a mother and a grandparent did I understand the significance of her love and concern for me.

Living far away from her during most of my adult life was extremely difficult. Although I busied myself with family and career, she occupied my thoughts every time I cooked a meal, planted a garden, sewed a seam or dressed for the day. I wish I had told her more often how much I loved, respected and admired her and what an incredible influence she had on my life.

Calvin Borel Jockey

CALVIN BOREL

At Jazzercise class yesterday morning, a woman who exercises next to me arrived early for class. As we chatted, she mentioned that she and her husband attended the Kentucky Derby last weekend. I commented that the winning horse was led by jockey Calvin Borel, a native of my home state. She responded, “Yes, he is illiterate, isn’t he? Can’t read or write a word!”

Patience was never my strong suit, and I am opposed to physical violence. I could feel my face muscles tense, and my brain was firing off messages like ATTACK, DISPOSE OF, CRUSH. On the tip of my tongue, these words were getting ready to spill out: “Well, I hope you wore a magnificent hat large enough to ensconce your abundant derriere.” But, I didn’t.

Instead I said, “His family lives just a pirogue ride away from my family’s home in an idyllic settlement called Catahoula.”

I continued, “Calvin is gifted in other ways. He weighs only 116 pounds but can guide a 1000+ pound horse to the finish line. He became the sixth jockey in the history of Churchill Downs to win six races on a single race card. With his victory in the July 5, 2008 Calvin became the thirty-fourth jockey in North American Thoroughbred racing history to win 4,500 races. On May 16, 2009 he won the Preakness Stakes on Rachel Alexandra. This accomplishment marked the first time that a jockey won the first two legs of the Triple Crown on different horses. And . . . last Saturday, May 1, 2010 Calvin rode Super Saver to win his 3rd Kentucky Derby in a 4-year span, the first jockey ever to do so.”

And I added, “He has met U.S. Presidents, Queen Elizabeth II, and his picture has been published on the cover of major news magazines. Louisianians, especially my Catahoula friends, are extremely proud of his accomplishments. I hope you requested his autograph because he is able to sign his name and that autograph may be more lucrative than a bet on a horse.”

Of course, I was calmer after that. She was not offended and asked me to tell her more after class about Catahoula. I thought to advise some reading on emotional intelligences and traits of the gifted and talented, but I didn’t. What if she deliberately tried to fall on me in class?

Atchafalaya Houseboat

I regret missing the PBS special about Gwen Roland's book Atchafalaya Houseboat: My Years in the Louisiana Swamp, but I did hear her speak about her book on ALL THINGS CONSIDERED.

Thoreau's experiment at Walden Pond and his journals recording his close observations of nature do not contain the exuberance and pioneering spirit in Roland's book.

Gwen Roland, writer and editor, now works at the University of Georgia. She and her friend, Calvin Voisin,construct living quarters, grow and harvest their own food, hunt wild hogs, light oil lamps, collect fresh water, read poetry, fish, watch sunrises and sunsets, and endear themselves to locals . . . during eight years of living in the Atchafalaya basin.

Bayou Chene resurrects for her mystical memories of her grandmother's stories and her life growing up on a gravel road near Bayou Chene. The village she remembers at Bayou Chene no longer exists.

Roland also chronicles her experience as the cook on a 3300 horsepower riverboat on the Mississippi River to earn money for the swamp existence. Her daily menus consist of Cajun meals prepared for the crew. This Mark Twain experience allows her some free time to posit notions about relationships, people, small towns, and life on the river.

Falling in love with the riverboat engineer ends Gwen's relationship with Calvin. She and Preston marry, lose their fascination with willderness living and move to Breaux Bridge then to Georgia.

If you love Louisiana, this book should remind you of the uniqueness of our state.

GROWING UP CATHOLIC

Most children are born into a religion. As a Catholic born in a French Catholic village in southwest Louisiana in 1946, I had limited knowledge about other religions. My perspective changed as I married and moved to other states. My southern Baptist friends attended mega churches, my Lutheran friends sang really loud hymns, my Episcopalian friends and I noted similarities in our faiths, and my Jewish friends suffered guilt which I clearly understood as Catholic guilt about sin could be as enervating.

Amazing that with such a small population in a town where Main Street measured one mile, our Catholic church resembled a cathedral architecturally. A massive main altar, two side altars, marble columns; large, beautiful Stations of the Cross, comfortable wooden pews, life-sized statues of saints, stained glass windows, seating for hundreds, and a commendable choir loft. The church atmosphere was devout, quiet, and respectful. How did so few people fund that magnificent church?

In a predominantly Catholic environment, most community activities were church-centered. Pre-Vatican II Catholicism involved sacrosanct traditions, including the Latin mass. Very few people, except for the priest and some scholars understood Latin. We sang Latin hymns and recited Latin prayers reverently pretending we knew exactly what the lyrics meant. SACRAMENTUM was easy to translate, but what the heck did PACHEM mean? In our Cajun culture, some words took on strange meanings.

As creatures of habit, families filed into the same long pew every Sunday. The church atmosphere was devout, quiet, and respectful. At the Offertory, ushers thrust long-handled collection baskets into each pew, shaking them loudly to inspire parishioners to toss more money to the Lord. Women wore hats and gloves, and men wore suits. Our bodies were fully clothed. I recall one pastor's fiery sermon chastising our high school cheerleaders for inappropriate uniforms. Their skirts were knee length.

Despite the acknowledged separation of church and state, public school students marched down main Street one block to attend CCD [catechism] classes at the church hall. We memorized and recited passages from the Baltimore Catechism, a staid theological text boiled down to an elementary- grade reading level. Recitations included questions/answers such as "Who made us? God made us." Priests and nuns in cassocks and habits instructed us. Our minds wandered as we stared into the pictureless texts. "Did Sister Beatrice shave her head?"  "Was she married to a priest? Girls looked at our drop-dead gorgeous pastor and thought, "What a waste!" Misbehavior resulted in a knuckle rap with a wooden ruler and a command to confess our sins.

Community activities held on church grounds included bazaars: good food, music, alcohol, and fund raising.
During the month of the Rosary, October, townspeople gathered at the high school football stadium. Parishioners, each representing a rosary bead, formed a circle on the football field. A cleric, our Pastor or the Bishop or his envoy, led the gathering in a recitation of the rosary. An amazing mix of church and state.

In May, the month of Mary, a religious procession/parade traveled down Main Street culminating at the church where a pious young female child surrounded by less pious angels crowned a statue of the Virgin Mary as we sang, "O Mary we crown thee with blossoms today."

Minstrels included black-faced characters singing, "Old Man Riv-ah¿ accompanied by Myrt Cabrol's rousing piano playing. The nuns also scheduled a square-dance performance by students. Even then, I thought it strange that Sister Bernadette knew the choreography to hillbilly music. Those of us who twirled our skirts too high on stage were reminded that sin led to hell.

Members of the Knights of Columbus who dressed in royal regalia at mass staged a popular fundraiser, a Womanless Wedding. Some of these church leaders wearing wigs, makeup, dresses, and heels looked like Vegas performers. I tried to remember, even then, that our huge, Cathedral-like church was funded by such bizarre events.

My mother dragged all seven of us to confession every Saturday. How many sins can a five year old commit in a week? I told myself, "Go through the motions. Kneel. Disguise voice and say, "Confess me, Father, for I have sinned . . . ." Confess sins. Speak rapidly so persons in line don't think you are filled with sin. Say Act of contrition. Wait for penance and hope priest does not recognize you. Listen as priest slides door shut. Kneel at altar and say penance. Run to vestibule of church and check Legion of Decency for movie titles listed. Leave church feeling cleansed and saintly.

Rituals, says Joseph Campbell, strengthen society. Interesting to perceive and recall the past of our formative years.

ZEITOUN

At right, Dave Eggers, author of Zeitoun . . .

Several nights ago, I watched the National Book Award ceremony on Book TV, a cable channel. One of my favorite authors, Dave Eggars spoke about the significance of writers and writing.


When I discovered Dave Eggars' book, Zeitoun, published in 2009, I recalled the shock, horror, anger, and despair felt in the aftermath of Katrina's devasting destruction and our country's worst national disaster. This non-fiction testament of the courage of the Zeitouns will move you deeply, especially if you are a Louisiana native.

Abdulrahman Zeitoun, a Muslim who worked in New Orleans as a painting contractor, grew up in Syria. Spending ten years as a crewman or engineer working on cargo ships, he came to the US in 1988 on a tanker from Saudi Arabia destined for Houston. Later, working for a contractor in Baton Rouge, a Muslim friend introduced him to Kathy, a twenty-one year old  divorced woman from Baton Rouge who had converted to Islam. Although Zeitoun was thirty-four, he was taken with her striking looks and confident manner. They married, moved to New Orleans, and added two more girls to the family which included Kathy's daughter from an earlier marriage.

As Katrina moves inland, Zeitoun demands that his wife and children escape New Orleans as the hurricane category assessments increase. Left alone, Zeitoun tries desperately to save his home, rescues drowning pets, and, in a small watercraft, checks on neighbors and offers assistance to stranded homeowners. Trapped by the worsening conditions, Zeitoun takes in three other men who try desperately to survive the aftermath of the storm.

Alarmed by the looting, rapes, and gang activity, a New Mexico team headed by Gonzales, a cop fron Alberquerque, organizes a team of men armed with M-16s, to check out a house believed to be occupied by four men involved in drugs and robberies. Previous missions had been search and rescue, but the increasing violence and anarchy in the city prompts Gonzales to check out this information.

What happens next is one of the saddest examples of post 9/11 hysteria. Zeitoun and his fellow refugees are arrested and incarcerated at Angola Prison, the country's largest prison, once used "for the breeding of slaves . . . and considered one of the most dangerous, most hopeless prisons in the United States." Zeitoun's wife and children, unable to communicate with him, have no idea of his whereabouts. Zeitoun's brother, in Syria, works unceasingly to communicate with officials and friends in the United states to locate his brother.

In retrospect, this arrest was clearly a horrific example of racial profiling and zenophobia. In an earlier conversation with family, Zeitoun laments the fear and distrust generalized toward Muslims in the US. He questions, "When a crime is committed by a Christian, do they mention his religion? . . . And what about African Americans? When a crime is committed by an African American, it's mentioned in the first breath: 'An African American male was arrested today.' What about German Americans, Anglo Americans . . .?"

Kathy gave birth to son Ahmad in 2006 at East Jefferson hospital. Zeitoun kept in touch with the people he rescued in his canoe. He chose to stay in New Orleans. Every day he gets in his white van and works with his crew on building projects in the city. His life has regained some normalcy. He credits his faith, his family, and his belief in progress for his strength.

Historically, the the United States has been compared to a great melting pot of cultures. In the past, that term conjured images of the American Dream and a land of opportunity. Sadly, today, society's distrust of differences, has been propagated by fear about our safety, by media images of hatred for America, and by our reluctance to acknowlege human rights issues. This book is a page-turner.

THE ZEITOUN FOUNDATION
Foundation founded in 2009 by the Zeitoun family, Dave Eggars, and the McSweeneys to aid in the rebuilding of new orleans and to promote respect for human rights in the U.S. and around the world.

Capturing Minutes

Capture the minutes not the milestones.


Time goes by so quickly. I discovered today that the last note I wrote in the journal I so diligently kept when our seven year old granddaughter was born was written three years ago.

I have so many pictures of milestones we celebrated with our grandchildren: holidays, school events, birthdays, vacations. Pictures capture images that we must connect to a special time. Notes we write in a journal, however, tell us more. Reminiscing about the summer day we caught a butterfly or sat on the backyard swing and told stories will resurrect real life minutes of ordinary days we spent together.

One of my journal entries recalled a conversation I had with my five year old granddaughter. We were covered with mud after spending an entire morning potting herbs. As we walked into the house, she told me that this was the funnest day she had ever had. I know my  heart was glowing.

Picture of grandson Jake, 2, helping me to water plants.

AVATAR

If you haven't seen Avatar, see it soon before you get inundated with media reviews of the movie. My husband and I chose to watch the regular version, because we feared almost three hours of 3-D might be a too traumatic given the movie trailers we'd viewed.

James Cameron's spent fifteen years conceptualizing and creating this fabulous film. The story line follows the hero [Jake's] archetypal journey from Earth to Pandora, a fictional moon in another planetary system. A paraplegic, Jake signs up to participate in a capitalistic enterprise to fight the Na'vi humanoids on the alien Pandora to mine an indigenous valuable mineral. Jake and other humans who travel to Pandora must be genetically engineered in coffin-like contraptions so their bodies will resemble the blue, long-tailed, humanoid Na'Vi. Jake regains the use of his legs during each transformation as he becomes a hybrid Na'vi, an avatar. The term avatar means a reincarnation of a god in human form, as Krishna and Rama are two of the ten avatars of Vishnu, in Hindu theology.

Sigourney Weaver plays the botanist, Dr. Grace Augustine, who heads the Avatar program and mentors Jake. The capitalist Parker, representing the mining corporation, uses heavily armed sci-fi artillery to battle the peace-loving Na'Vi. Jake, transformed into a Na'Vi body, is left behind after being attacked by an alien predator. Rescued by the beautiful Na'Vi princess, Naytiri, Jake learns customs, earns trust, and soon fall in love with Naytiri.

Archetypes abound: the ancestral Tree of Souls transmits voices of generations of deceased Na'Vi; clan gatherings, hymns of praise to a Mother deity; hero tasks/ordeals that Jake must perform, such as taming a flying beast, the Toruk; resurrection: Jake's consciousness is transformed so he can serve as leader of the clan; good vs. evil [Mining company vs. Navi]; green theme: Na'vi closely living in harmony with nature; underdog theme [Na'vi fighting with arrows against an impersonal war force using missles and terminator-type warfare]; man's relationship to man, as the peace-loving Na'Vi are trivialized by the humans from Earth. Pandora has all the connotations from the Greek myth: beautiful Pandora who unleashes the evil when she opens a mysterious box the gods insisted she guard. A terrible enemy opens the door to Pandora, unleashing evil on the beautiful, fantastical, Eden-like environment. And, finally, the hero is awarded with the elixir. For Jake, the elixir constitutes his realization of his transformation. He is no longer wounded emotionally or physically. He has come to terms with his new role as leader and protector of the Na'Vi.

This movie is so chock-full of meaning that I felt like an awed primitive viewing it the first time. I was so taken with the beauty and fantasy that I realize I must view it again and again to understand all the nuances I missed. Titanic falls very short as compared with this amazing Cameron production. I totally disagree with the reviewer who labeled this movie Smurf porn.

A Child's Perspective of Travel -- December 2009

My seven year-old grandaughter, Talia, jumped and screamed with joy when she opened one of her favorite Christmas gifts, a set of pink polka dot luggage with matching luggage tags. Anticipating the annual trip to Palm Springs with her mom, two year-old brother Jakie and Grandpa Bruce, she spoke excitedly about the five hour flight from Atlanta to California. Abruptly, her mood changed. She addressed Papa Larry, "If the plane crashes into water, I have to save Jakie because he can't swim." Papa assured her that she would not be flying over an ocean on this cross-country trip. Later, as we two grandparents discussed her concern, I thought, "Had media coverage of the airplane landing in Hudson Bay so innundated the airways that she internalized those frightening television images? Had we spoken in her presence about the incident?" She is so innocent. Her conversations about Santa Claus,Elf on the Shelf, and family holiday traditions such as Hanukkah and Christmas entertained all of us. The reality of life seen through the eyes of a child . . . .

FREE PUMPKIN CARVING PATTERNS

http://www.ehow.com/halloween/templates.html#carvingPatterns

My grandson Jake, 2007 Halloween costume. Keeping this pic to use in his high school yearbook. Think he'll forgive me?

AMELIA EARHART

 Hillary Swank, in the movie AMELIA, does a magnificent job of portraying Earhart's daring, independence, and wanderlust. 

Amelia Earhart preferred not to live in a gilded cage. Her marriage to a Putnam Publishing heir afforded her a glitzy lifestyle, but her love of flying stretched her ability to conform to the accepted roles designated for women in the early nineteenth century.

I didn't know the specific circumstances about her ill-fated round the world flight in 1937. Apparently, a bad decision about stripping her plane of necessary equipment to lighten the load, the ineptness of a communications officer on a ship monitoring her flight, and perhaps mislaid trust in her navigator contributed to the disaster.

Interesting that the name of the first woman to achieve a solo flight around the world is not commonly known. Geraldine "Jerry" Mock, in 1964, flying "Spirit of Columbus," earned the distinction of being the first woman to fly solo around the globe.

Amelia Earhart paved the way for women to become recognized in the aviation field and inspired countless young female aviators to seek the endless bounds of earth.


http://www.ameliaearhart.com/

HEALTHIEST COMMUNITIES IN THE US

Depending upon the source published or promoted by the media, certain cities in the US rank high as the healthiest places to live. An AARP report lists Ann Arbor, Michigan; Madison, Wisconsin; Santa Fe, New Mexico; Fargo, North Dakota-BRRRR!
Longest life expectancy and most affordable health care: Ames, Iowa; Skinniest-Boulder, Colorado.
http://www.aarpmagazine.org/lifestyle/healthiest_hometowns.html?CMP=KNC-360I-GOOGLE-ATM&HBX_OU=50&HBX_PK=healthiest_city

I'm not planning to move EVER since my family lives in Atlanta. The criteria used in researching cities varies. Southern cities rank high in charm, friendliness, dining, and good weather, but not so high in terms of healthcare access, employment, and education. US News and World Report set up a search tool for Best Places to Live in the US. If you're planning to move . . .

http://www.usnews.com/money/personal-finance/real-estate/articles/2009/06/08/methodology-how-we-chose-the-best-places-to-live.html

Lowest on the scale of healthiest cities based on a report by Centrum Healthiest Cities Study is, GASP, New Orleans! One of my favorite cities achieved the worst scores based on Physical Activity and Lifestyle Pursuits. Somehow, when I'm visiting this city of cuisine and culture, jogging and vegetarian entrees are not high on my list of pursuits.
http://www.bestplaces.net/docs/studies/healthy.aspx

What is your feeling about this study?

JAZZERHON ATLANTA 2010

Countdown to JAZZERTHON ATLANTA 2010 to benefit the Susan Komen Foundation.
http://www.jazzercise.com/pdfs/susan_g_komen_atlanta_flyer.pdf

WRITING A RESEARCH PAPER

http://www.cobbk12.org/CentralOffice/picasso/ResearchGuide1Document.doc

BREAST CANCER- CLICK FOR MAMMOGRAMS

AUTUMN

Dylan  Thomas, in "Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night" talks about the death of his father. When I think of that powerful poem about death, the line, "Rage against the dying of the light," reminds me of  metaphorical images of fall-autumn.


"Then summer fades and passes and October comes. We'll smell smoke then, and feel an unexpected sharpness, a thrill of nervousness, swift elation, a sense of sadness and departure."
- Thomas Wolfe



Growing up in the deep South, in lower LA [Louisiana], fall meant Grinding Season [sugar cane], pecan picking, the Sugar Cane Festival, bonfires, and cool evenings.
Now I love searching for the perfect pumpkin with my grandchildren, cooking crock pot soups, and gazing at fall leaves.

Ideas for Fall

Plant pansies.
Pansies, a fashionable Victorian flower, were meant to be the flowers of lovers. People believed that pansies could transfer lovers' thought without spoken words. The derivation of pansy is French, pensee, meaning thought. Pansies have colorful face-makings in the petals. Plant now for blooms that last through the winter months.

Plant bulbs: Oct 15-Dec 15.

Rake leaves, talk to your children about leaf colors, the jump into leaf piles with them.

Carve a pumpkin. Purchase a pumpkin carving kit at a drugstores or other retail store.

Make pumpin bread. Por batter into cute leaf-shaped bakeware.


Make a pumpin cake. Pour batter into a fluted bundt pan. Add orange food coloring to white frosting. Frost cake. Turn flat-bottom ice cream cone upside down in center of cake, add green food coloring to white frosting and frost green--voila--the pumpkin stalk!

Read a book about fall to your grandchildren: Autumn Leaves by Ken Robbins. Check out the library for more titles.

UMBRELLA UNIVERSITY

Coorinating colors is a passion of mine. My seven-year old granddaughter discovered these umbrellas in the trunk of my car. She opened each and displayed them in rainbow fashion in the driveway.

I asked her what she thought. Her comment,"You like to match everything." I admit that I match umbrellas to my clothing.

She has inherited my eclectic style of dress--no pinafores, hair bows, or plaids for her. Her closet is packed with glitzy fabrics, peace symbols, leggings, and other trendy styles. I love her zest!

FASHION FORWARD

COVET FASHION http://www.covet.com/

Catchy name for a fashion site! Check it out. Easy to enroll. Fun to find out your fashion style. Mine is Couture Modern, Couture Glam, and Couture Eclectic.